Descension
by dracademented
Summary: {Sequel to 'Unexpected'} They are the children of legends, of eternal Royalty, of the most feared and powerful beings alive. And now, as a new war has broken out, they must decide their own fates and loves, as well as the future of the people.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children that you'll soon be meeting.

**Author's Note:** Alright, in 'Unexpected', I used two spellings for the word magic, one to symbolize dark and one to symbolize light. But since the Royals now rule and their word is law, all magic is accepted, and therefore, I will only use one spelling for it. Dark magic and light magic are still mostly separate forces, of course, but since the dark is no longer shunned…(smirks) There's no need for an added 'k' anymore.

**Author's Admission of Defeat: **Well, I hope you're all happy! (pouts) I finally cracked under the pressure and started a freakin' sequel to the freakin' age-long _monstrosity_ that sucked three months of my life away. (sighs) I reach new levels of pathetic-ness as each day goes by. But I _did_ quit the other halfway through, because this second part has been a long time in the planning. I originally intended for it to be part of the first, but I don't even want to _think_ of how long that would have made that story. So I quit, because it was finishing enough there, or so I thought. But now the urge to write the rest has become irresistible, even though I was _supposed_ to start an original novel. Damn it. Damn it all. Well, here you go, another chunk of my very heart and soul, drug up and ripped out of my core, injecting itself through my fingers into this keyboard.

And yes, I'm perfectly aware that I'm being melodramatic. I'm also aware that if you lovely people don't review, I'll write the rest, kill myself before posting any of it, and laugh heartily at you all from Hell. So _there_. (sticks out tongue and continues sulking)

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**Prologue:**

**November 2018**

**(Four Years and Ten Months since the End of 'Unexpected'; Twenty Years and Nine Months since the Fall of Voldemort and the Destruction of Dagda.)**

It started, for them, on a gray day filled with clouds, as though the sky knew what was about to happen.

It had been, up until dinner, a rather unremarkable day altogether. Pansy had risen, shagged the shit out of her husband, and gone to see Virginia and Padma, taking her two youngest daughters with her. They enjoyed playing with the other two women's children, Padma having used Virginia's delightful spell and given birth to twins mere months after the Queen herself, who had also had a daughter a year after the Crown Princes, both of whom had only just turned four on All Hallow's Eve. It was a room full of small mischief-makers, and magic was certainly a blessing in keeping them occupied and restrained to a certain area.

The Kings, along with Pansy's beloved and Fred and George, had only just returned from Paris, where they'd been petitioned to visit so that the muggles could once again ask for their aid in the fighting. But what did they care about a stupid muggle war? It had started three years ago, springing up from the minor wars in the Middle East and spreading until Africa had been pulled into it, then India and China, Russia and Japan, Mexico and South America…And then, a year after its start, the bombings of London and Houston had finally drug in the two central powers, Europe and the United States. A new World War had broken out among them.

And all of it over stupid, sticky, useless black tar.

The mages found it more than a bit baffling. The muggles would truly fight and kill each other, no, _slaughter_ each other, over something that the land gave freely? The wizarding world watched it all with something like stupefied disbelief, safe behind Royal wards. They watched as bombs decimated thousands upon thousands, as huge battles ranged over all the different lands, never ceasing, as the WWN showed recording after recording of sobbing mothers and dead children, of tortured men and broken leaders. The wizards had fought against corruption and filth; they fought for it. It was sickening and disturbing, and not just to the purebloods.

No, the halfbloods and mudbloods turned their backs on them in disgust, as well.

The only thing that saved the land was magic, and when the war had first started getting truly horrible, the Royals had banded together and sent out a web of dark, searching energy, energy that had destroyed the muggles' cursed nuclear warheads. They would not take farther action in their affairs, but they wouldn't let them obliterate all of their hard work, either. Enough of the land was being torn apart by the smaller bombs and the endless fighting; much more would stretch their magic too thin to heal it quickly enough. The leaders of countries that possessed such missiles had protested and pleaded, but the High Royals' decision had been final.

They would wait out the muggles and their moronic war, and if they drove themselves to extinction, then so be it. But they could not ruin the land beyond repair. The muggles did not threaten the Court over it, they knew better by then, and they desperately wanted an alliance. But Draco and Blaise would hear nothing of such foolishness, and Virginia and Padma observed it all with cold, judging eyes. The four of them watched women and children die by the millions, they watched power-hungry men play the world like a badly organized game of chess, and they waited. And their liegeman waited with them, ready to fight or flee at their command.

Although the latter was _highly_ unlikely to ever happen.

Not that the muggles could get within their shields in the first place. And even if they could, they would die in seconds. They were magicless and therefore almost completely defenseless in a mage's eyes, like a newborn sheep among wolves. And those wolves peered out of invisible wards at the carnage right outside day-by-day, shaking their heads and pondering what barbaric beasts the muggles were. Pansy was one of the ones for assembling an army and wiping them off the face of the earth altogether, and that opinion was slowly becoming ever more popular as the mudbloods adopted pure ways, as they realized why they'd always been so looked down upon.

Suddenly, dark magic wasn't nearly so evil as the raging death all around them.

No, it only helped open even more eyes then the return of the Sovereigns had, and the slowly growing acceptance strengthened and grew until classes teaching the Dark Arts and not just how to fight them had even been added to Hogwarts itself. Some still disagreed with such magic, of course, but the number dwindled daily since even the light gods spoke not a word of ill will about it. And the Royals…nearly every mage alive adored them; it was in their very blood to do so. And those Royals kept cautious eyes on their borders, cautious, caustic eyes, waiting for the muggles to try and attack a known wizarding settlement or city.

But they didn't, their fear too great.

So while they maimed and butchered and mutilated each other, the majority of mages continued on as though nothing was happening outside their pretty, perfect world. The nobles attended functions and galas, balls and celebrations, they danced and laughed and ruled their lands. The rest went to work, came home and ate with their families, and went to bed knowing that they were safe, that they were being watched over by Royals and gods alike. Their war was over, scattered on the wind as Voldemort's ashes had been, and they didn't fancy another, especially one that didn't concern them. _They_ certainly didn't give a shit about oil or old muggle grudges.

So it was no wonder that that day's tragedy came as a complete surprise.

She got ready for dinner as she did most nights, rich fabric hugging her forever-youthful frame and jewels flashing from her fingers, throat and hair. Being a sworn-sister of the High Royals and therefore a Princess of the Realm, a circlet of black opal sat upon her brow, and the ring of the Royal family flashed on one hand by her wedding band, the ring of elements on the other next to her signet ring. At least eleven knives stayed on her person at all times, and she refused the slippers of the Court for boots, which were much easier to fight in. And though she was a Royal and had her own guards, her first duty was the safety of the High Royals.

So she had gone to dinner, her children with her, and Anton had already been at Blaise's side, discussing the plans for the new wing being built onto the Palace at Caliga. Sitting by Melody, they talked of nothing too important throughout the first course, the soft, haunting strands of the musicians' prowess a lulling backdrop as they sipped their wine and constantly kept one eye on the children, who sat at the table next to them, immersed in some complicated game involving a Hand of Glory and bartered bags of pixie dust. It wasn't until the next course was laid out on the table that her Mark tingled and the High Royals and Padma stiffened.

Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Draco and Blaise stared straight ahead, their eyes glazed and unseeing, divine fury building and turning their irises a bloody crimson. Claws dug straight through the arms of their Thrones, which truly should have been much more difficult even for them, and several things in the Hall exploded. Virginia and Padma looked shocked and ill, diamond-like tears that were tinged purple with their blood streaming slowly down their cheeks as their eyes bled to a solid black speckled with a hundred enraged stars, and all four stood abruptly. Then, without so much as a glance or a word at their liegemen, they were gone, riding the ether hard and fast.

The Family Dining Hall stayed utterly stunned and silent for a moment, before the twins, Pansy and Anton bit out orders to the others to stay and watch the children before drawing on the power of their rings and following the Elementals. Down, down, down to the earth and then to the east, far to the east until they were in that cursed, barren land of scorching heat and horizon-filling deserts. And…then they were on the outskirts of a war camp, hundreds of dirty tents stretching on for over two miles, and it was there they found those they sought. They'd gotten cloaks from somewhere, and none were moving so much as a single muscle, having abandoned even breathing.

The Chosen of Cocidius and the Dark Lady stood in a line, their hoods pulled low over their faces as they gazed up at that which held their unwavering attention. The emotions saturating the hot, heavy air all around them were staggering, nearly forcing their bonded to their knees, but it was understandable. Because the horror before them was nothing less than a complete calamity. Nauseous, infuriated and filled to bursting with sorrow, Pansy sagged against Anton, unable, for a moment, to believe her eyes. The muggles had gone too far this time, much, much too far, and it stirred centuries-old resentment and bitterness into an inferno.

Because no less than seventy mages hung crucified and burnt before them.

She had no idea when she'd started softly sobbing, no idea when she'd fallen to her knees and clutched at gritty sand still warm from the sun's heat, no idea how long she stayed like that, her world blurring and fogging and dimming. Because memories, memories buried in her blood, in her very cells and soul, suddenly overwhelmed her. She could feel her skin melting off, could feel her plasma boiling and her brain frying, could taste the soot and ash and hate on her tongue, and she felt like screaming, but she couldn't. She felt the panic and desolation of the Burning Days, _remembered_ them, and image after horrific image paraded in front of her glassy eyes.

Countless women and men had been tortured, beaten, raped and burnt, and out of every few dozen, a true mage was caught. All in the name of God, the One God as he called Himself, all in the name of Good and Light and Righteousness. His priests taught that any with 'magic' were evil, sons and daughters of the Devil Himself, and that they were to be killed without remorse. And they were. Any who were suspected and captured, mage or muggle, all met the same fate. A cruel death, and most times at the stake. And for what? Their God? Half the fucking priests didn't even believe, not really, but they enjoyed their power too much.

And how did they catch the true mages? Well, take away a wizard's wand…

Most couldn't hold off flames or Apparate without one, and over the long years, their world fell to jagged pieces around them. Their Sovereigns were no more, their gods had forsaken them, and more than a few broke from the old ways. In a desperate effort to repopulate, the interbreeding with muggles had _truly_ begun, and those who stayed pure looked on in revulsion and utter disbelief as their people whored themselves out to the enemy. Their deep-seated dislike muggle blood began to fester into loathing, undeniable, unstoppable _loathing_, their suspicions confirmed. It was of the utmost importance to keep the lines free from such a taint.

And the others, the Betrayers and Abandoners, couldn't seem to understand. They couldn't see that they were slowly but surely damning their people, they couldn't see that the purebloods had been right all along in their caution and mistrust. They _were_ better, better than the two-legged animals that called themselves human and intelligent, and they would never, _ever_ forget or forgive the wrongs committed against their people during that grisly, gruesome time period. From those days forward, mudbloods and halfbloods were seen as little more than diseased trash to the majority of the purebloods, and would be forevermore.

Her ancestors hissed inside her head. '_There_ _must not be another Age of Purging Flame_.'

No. No. Not ever again. Her eyes racing over the still, suspended corpses before them, she soaked in every detail so that there was no hope of her ever forgetting the smell of their charred flesh or the way that their ashy skin flaked off in the rare breeze. No way to forget those shriveled, unrecognizable faces or the small tongues of fire still licking at their feet. She would recall it even more vividly than the brutal memories for the rest of her days, branded permantly into her brain, behind her eyelids. These were people that she was supposed to _protect_, all but twelve as pure as could be, and someone, someone was going to pay dearly.

And there, salt in the wound, were yard-tall words scrawled in mage blood on the sand.

'_Thou_ _Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live_.'

Virginia howled, a sound filled with Queenly rage and divine retribution, and it rose goosebumps along their skin as it echoed over the dunes in ghostly waves. Motion exploded within the camp, guards coming to attention and others freezing in their preparations for sleep, their hearts thrumming in instinctual fright, and Pansy's mind cleared of grief, old and new. She glanced at the High Royals, met Draco's eyes, and knew that every person in the camp was about to die. A smile of satisfaction spread across her face, though most would probably call it a fierce grimace, her fangs flashing in the moonlight and her lips twisting in macabre mirth.

"Foolish fucking cretins." Blaise's voice slithered out into the night, winding around every tent and spirit, silencing the muggles' scampering and startled shouts. "We warned you, time and time again, and yet still you resurrect the bad blood between us."

"But no more." Draco hissed as the Elementals began stalking slowly forward, their every movement intent and predatory, the cold rage of Royalty thick around them. "No more will our people suffer for your false pride and your heathen god."

"We thought that you had learned." Padma spat venomously, her eyes for once anything but serene, while the air around the four of them grew thick and suffocating, the ground beginning to tremble. "We thought that we could co-exist despite our very blood despising you."

"And we were wrong." Virginia crooned, the first bright, searing ball of fire twisting into shape from nothing within her cupped hand, and suddenly, her eyes appeared speckled not with stars, but with blood. "You are nothing more than animals. And now, now you will know true witchly wrath."

And they _did_, oh gods, how they did.

Not a single one escaped them, the eight of them being more than enough level whole cities, let alone a makeshift, raggedy army camp. The soldiers begged and screamed and pleaded, they prayed for their god and for salvation, and in the end, they simply asked for this living hell to stop. No mercy was shown, no pity provoked, and it was callous, jaded, vengeful eyes that watched them die in droves. The leaders, the generals, they were pinned to crosses as the mages had been, but these were Celtic crosses and curving ankhs, crosses made of living trees that grew impossible and proud from the dry sand and that didn't burn as the men did.

They would never hurt a tree, after all, not if it could be helped.

No, the flames licked over the wood harmlessly, even as they utterly destroyed the muggles pinned with foot-long blades to that same bark. But it was not a quick death, no, not for the ones who had ordered such a heinous crime. They roasted slowly, so slowly, and they felt every moment of it. And worse yet for them was that they _weren't_ true believers in their pompous god, which barred them entrance to His selective (and extremely dull) halls. Not to mention the fact that a slew of angry, mourning deities already gathered close around the entrance to their Realm, having sensed the tragedy as well as the Royal fury whipping through the ether.

But they did not stop there.

No, this insult was too great, and they would leave the muggle world forever in a blaze of death and arcane magic. Banding together, their fingers intertwining as the circle closed around them, their blood mingled and spun through cuts in their palms as they threw their links to one another open wide. It was like swimming in liquid black leather shot with every color imaginable and more, liquid leather that molded to every inch of you before sinking inside your skin even as it spread out from within at the same time. And the friction of the two raised power, such power that the world itself felt drunk with it and the heavens seemed to sink, as if pulling in close.

Everything started spinning, spinning and shaking and revolving around them, until they stood in a vortex of sorts, watching the world whip by in blurred streaks of sand and sky, and time stopped, even that bending to their will and feeding them its energy while leaving them eerily calm in the center of their storm. And then, when the High Royals and Padma fully let go of their restraining shields and let their own breed of magic completely out to play, the circle blew apart and that destructive power swept across the land in a roaring, menacing, malevolent wave of healing and fury. Forever it seemed they stood there, directing and controlling that which couldn't be stopped.

By any but them, that is.

And that is what they did when they felt it starting to reach beyond the borders they had chosen. The energy fell back in on itself, still seeking something, _anything_, for it to do, be it heal or kill, and they slammed it into the very land that they had just decimated. The power that so many deaths raised was very nearly crushing, and when added with their own, when turned to repairing rather than rage, it was a soothing, almost instantaneous healing and rebirth. _Jungle_, they thought as one, and it obeyed, twisted, reformed, Nature screaming in both pain and victory. Another eternity was spent there, pouring their power into the earth.

And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun.

When she could see normally again, when she could breathe and think and feel, she admired their handiwork. Dense trees crowded in close, leafy and green, bright with flowers and smelling of rich, healthy soil. The army camp was gone, wasted to ashes in the first blast, and all that remained were the crucified witches and wizards. They had been turned into stone, stone that had altered their last appearances for clearer remembrance. Some were still mostly whole, their faces twisted in torment as they silently screamed, frozen flames licking up over their heads. Others were farther along and melting, shriveling in on themselves, and others looked as they last had.

They were made of marble; marble, limestone and granite swirled through with ebentine and bloodstone, and the death magic coursing through the creations made one swear that the flames truly flickered, that the jewel-encrusted eyes really glowed with agonized suffering. An arm spasmed here, a body writhed there; a stone lip was chewed through and bled phantom blood. It was eerie; this sorcerous, mystical monument in the midst of such vibrant surroundings full of new life. But it was fitting, as well. Let the new life spring from the old. Let it be an eternal reminder, because this time, this time they would not make the same mistake twice.

The statues would stand as long as Royalty still ruled.

They returned to the lunar Palace some time later, after thanking Nature for Her cooperation and turning their faces to the heavens, quietly mocking this land's god, who had once again not come to His people's aid. Though He would have been a fool to, for their Lord and Lady blessed their actions and would not look kindly on any deity harming them, though few were left who could. Then they were gone and riding the ether once more, coming out in a Palace courtyard filled to the brim with servants and nobles alike. Many looked shaken and worried, others as blank as could be, and all fell to their knees so quickly that it was vaguely startling.

"Rise."

They did, and the questions began.

"What happened?"

"So much power—"

"Earth, Earth has _changed_, look—"

"You could _see_ it, see it spread and eat—"

"And now it's so _green_ there—"

"Are they all dead?"

"Are we at war?"

"Enough." Virginia said softly, and silence spread like rippling silk. "All will be answered soon. Where are the Queen Mothers?"

"Just inside, your majesty, with the children." Someone answered promptly. "You, Jaston, send for them immediately." Someone else scampered off, and minutes later, Narcissa and Silana came gliding out, looking as regal and perfect as ever. Both curtseyed low, kissed their sons' cheeks, and waited patiently to hear why they'd been summoned.

"The children?"

"They had to be sedated." Narcissa said, and held up one small hand when eight mouths opened to protest. "They felt whatever you did, less than a minute after you left. They were all upset, but the Crown Princes…it was necessary, I assure you. The entire Family Dining Room is in pieces."

"Did they use a spell?" Draco asked curiously, for a moment thrown off track.

"More than likely." Blaise responded without thinking. Their sons fascinated them quite a lot. "I bet it was brill—bloody horrible. Must have a talk with them soon." Blaise amended quickly when he finally saw the looks being directed at them not only from their mothers, but from Padma and Virginia, as well. They quickly got back on track, since not even their sons could distract them from such a deep-seated fury for long.

"A press conference must be called immediately. Get reporters from every wizarding network here within the half hour. We have no time to waste."

"It will be done." The two half-veela said without argument, and then they were gone and everyone was being ushered into the Throne Room.

It looked much like the ones at Malfoy Manor and Tenebre Stella, except that it was much larger and eight thrones sat upon the dais. The rest of the room was made of cold, black marble veined with silver, green and purple, and candles flickered everywhere. Two altars sat at the head of the room behind the thrones, and each ran clear into pools at their bases, pools that trickled into small creeks that ran the length of the room, making a divine path to the dais. Two low bridges of more dark marble stretched over the streams at the end of the room, allowing them to be crossed safely or allowing one to walk that fearsome path.

The eight of them did not enter that way, and they made it long before the others all started arriving. The Kings sat in the center, Draco in the Ice Throne, a creation of frost and snow and the frozen tears of gods, shaped by the Crone and Skadi, by Demeter and Bruma, by Isis Herself. All that was winter and water was trapped within it, a 'worthy seat for a worthier King', or so said they. Blaise sat upon the Thunder Throne, which was made of raven-colored, roiling cloud wisps and shot through with flashes of lightning, made with care by Set and Ares, by Thor and Taranis, by the usually-elusive Tempestates.

Virginia sat beside Blaise on the Throne of Flame, which was exactly that. Darkfire and hellfire churned and twisted and licked at her skin harmlessly, harnessed and crafted by Hephaestus and Vulcan, by Bastet and Belisama, by the tricky, ever-scheming Loki. Padma was beside Draco on the Throne of Earth, a splendor of thorny vines blooming with purple blossoms so dark they were nearly black, created carefully by Tellus and Seb, by Jord and Cernunnos, by the great Gaia, who had awoken especially for it. The other four thrones were made of ebentine, and Pansy and George sat beside Draco and Padma while Anton and Fred sat next to Blaise and Virginia.

The reporters arrived together after the others, tight-lipped and pale-faced.

"This is to be an emergency bulletin, and we want it broadcast in the bloody sky if that's what it takes to alert every mage alive of the new laws." Blaise started, and neither his words nor his chilled tone helped the anxiety of those gathered.

But they would not be another failed attempt like the Ministry; they would not lie and hide the world's horrors from their people. Such deception would accomplish nothing but weakening them from within during a time that they certainly couldn't afford it. Various recording devices were activated, the reporters hurriedly explained that the huge gathering of magic that everyone had felt was soon to be explained, and they nervously noted that new laws were about to be instated. Charms showed how many tuned in, and they waited for nearly twenty minutes while word spread like it only could in their world; almost instantaneously.

When ninety percent of the population sat by a radio or gazed into a mirror, they changed their world forever within minutes.

"Tonight, most felt our release of power." Draco said in his satiny, cloying voice. "That release was our revenge, and six muggle countries, those who began this mess and that brought the events of this night upon themselves, have been destroyed. Israel, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan and Afghanistan are no more."

Stunned silence.

And then, "N-No more? T-They're just g-_gone_?" One reporter asked shakily.

"Yes." Virginia replied simply, while ever more tiny dots lit up on the charms. "For this."

And then, with a wave of one imperial hand, the Queen drew from her own memories and projected them as a recording crystal would, into a three dimensional hologram that all could see. There it was again, that grisly double line of witches and wizards, and choked gasps and cries of shock echoed over marble. The purebloods all fell to their hands and knees, fingers scrabbling at their chests as their eyes glazed with their own blood-bound memories, while the halfbloods clutched at their heads and swooned, moaning with pain and disbelief at the flashes of visions and emotions that whisked past them, not quite able to take a firm hold.

The mudbloods just stared at everyone else and at the horrifying hologram, absently rubbing their temples.

"We _will not_ tolerate another Age of Burning." Blaise hissed once the worst had passed and every eye was once more glued to them raptly, the hologram fading into nothing. "Nor will we bother with a war. Those lost have been avenged, and we do not plan to lose anymore."

"They will kill themselves out, and we will thrive in their absence." Draco continued, his words full of conviction and strength. "And even if some survive, where do you think they will find themselves? They will not just be out-powered by the ones they have always scorned, but outnumbered, as well."

"They will not rise to such destructive heights again." Virginia said, fire in her eyes and a feral sneer on her beautiful face. "When this is over, there will not be another muggle dominion. They have abused their power for too long. And until then, we will lock ourselves away, keeping our world safe and secure."

"L-Lock ourselves away?" One brave reporter questioned, still looking slightly green.

"Yes." Draco agreed, idly twining one silver braid around an elegant finger. "One of the first things we did in the beginning of our reign was to collaborate with the gods on massive shielding and wards, just for such an occasion. Nothing will change as long as you stay within our world and within the wards. Which brings us to the new laws."

"No one is to leave the shields without authorization." Blaise intoned with a voice like charged iron, prickly and smooth all at once. "No one is to enter any remaining muggle settlement or camp without authorization. No one is to consort with any muggle in any way, be it in giving one aid or simply speaking to them. Any too close to the wards are to be turned away. Any that try their luck with the wards are to be killed."

"They say that they will not suffer witches to live." Virginia's fierce gaze swept over those assembled, leaving them with a sense of security and reassurance even as it more than slightly scared them. "And we say that we will no longer suffer _them_ to live. The laws against their murder are revoked, and if any get too near or threaten you in any way, you have our leave to act…accordingly. If you do not leave the wards, however, that will not be a problem."

"The shields go up permantly from now until their war's end at dawn." Draco informed them silkily. "You have until then to get inside our borders. Any caught outside will be found within the day. For those of you currently married to a muggle, they must be brought to one of the Palaces before the week's end for clearance and branding. From here on out, any new relations with their kind are banned. There will be no more inter-breeding, nor any association at all. To break the ban is to declare yourself a traitor and forfeit your life. You have been warned. _There are no exceptions_."

And so began the Seclusion.

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Well, there's the beginning! It's shorter than regular chapters (it _is_ the Prologue, after all), but the others will be about the same length as those in 'Unexpected'. I hope you all are at least interested, and if not, let me know, because I seriously don't want to waste my time here. The first part was all that I planned to write, but the second half of the story just keeps begging to be told. I was reluctant to do this at all do to how much time 'Unexpected' took up in my life, so if it's not worth it, please tell me, as I do not want to become too attached to it if no one cares. I'm not one for wasting time or space where I could be doing something else (even though this seems to be all that I think about these days). Thank you and…

Please Review!

**Happy Yule! Merry X-Mas! Blessed Be and Joy to All!**


	2. Snickers and Sisters

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Responses to my fabulous reviewers: ****tkmoore**, darling, exalted one, oh how I worship thee! (grovels at thy feet, pouring praise and adulation upon thee) **SkotosEnigma**, thank you! And corpus fanart?? (does happy dance) You _so_ rock! **sillysun**, (cackling) Indeed! Well, I promise to _try_, lol! And, as always, thanks for the awesome review! Oh, and…update soon, damn it! **coffeechick87**, thanks! Hope you like this chapter, too! **Flower4444**, yes, in many ways, it is. And yay, I surprised you, lol! **candace1989**, their children, and both. Thanks for reviewing! **babykelyse**, thanks! Glad you liked it! **Lady Hateya**, thank you! And I'm just glad that you've been enjoying them! **Lithui**, I made you squeak, I made you squeak! LOL thanks for reviewing!! **me**, yay, you liked it! (does victory dance) hopefully you'll like the rest, too! **otaku sae**, yes, you are, starting now! And thanks, as usual! You kick ass! **Haunted-Shadows**, (snickers) I guess I'm doing my job then, hmm? LOL! Thanks, as usual, and you'd better update soon or I'll…I'll…not update! **LEGOSGURL**, I'll get it updated soon, I just have to get some of this out of my system, lol. Please bear with me and thanks for reviewing! **Meryl12**, thank you so much!! **Psi**, thanks! I always appreciate your reviews!! **bigreader**, thanks! and a mudblood is someone who has two muggle parents, while a halfblood has one muggle parent and one mage parent. **aoi-yuki-yume**, thanks! and I would if I could, lol. **Alexis**, I don't need a beta right now, lol, but thank you so much for reading and reviewing! **pulchritudeXx**, (ogles long review) thank you! I'm so glad you like it so far, and I hope you continue to do so! **afici0nada**, thanks! you so have me blushing! **Voldemort8**, I think you'll like the villain, lol. Now, did you really think I could do straight fluff!? Of course there's a threat! :P **gin rose raposo1**, trust me, you will. It begins now, actually. And thanks for reviewing!! **bobomidado**, thank you! Hope you like the rest! **Wicked Not Evil**, well, this will be more about their kids, but you should get some from them, too, lol. And thank you! **Raithen**, LOL! Glad it made you happy! Hopefully it won't disappoint you farther on, and thanks! **Tytianne**, thank you, and I can only hope that it will be! **The-Dark-Rose-of-Insanity**, (blushes) thanks! hope this was soon enough, and that you don't hate it later on, lol! **manda-hplover4life**, well, I _will_ be continuing unless something truly tragic occurs, lol. And thank you! **Kaifeuille**, thank you so much! It's good to know that I'm not just wasting space, you know? So, again, thanks! **potatomaker**, well, you promise, and I promise, so now we have a pact ! whoo-hoo! LOL – thanks for reviewing!! Laura, thanks, and hopefully you'll continue to like it!

**Author's Note: **Okay, these updates may not always be out as quickly as they were for 'Unexpected' (since I now have a job, horror of horrors) but I promise to continue writing as long as you keep reading and reviewing. :P

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**December 2032**

"_ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!_"

The starry silence blanketing the moon's Palace shattered.

"What the bloody fuck was that?" Someone called as windows and patio doors were thrown open.

"Maybe one of the yetis got loose." Someone else suggested.

"Or an Augurey. They sound like that sometimes when they haven't gotten off in—"

"Goddamn it, you sick fuck, you shut the fuck up, too!"

"You know, it actually sounded like—" Another started, only to be cut off by an echoing bellow of pure rage.

"_TRISTEN!!!!_"

"Like Severus?"

"YOU STUPID, WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A PRINCELING, WHEN I CATCH YOU, I SWEAR TO HECATE I'LL—"

"Shut the bloody hell up, Severus! More than half of us just went to sleep, you sodding prick!" Yet another voice added itself to the early morning madness.

"IS THAT _YOU_, DAMIEN!? WHERE'S YOUR GODS-FORSAKEN BROTHER!?"

Silence, and then a soft, "Oh, shit," could be heard, before he called back, "I have no brother!", and slammed his doors shut.

"YOU LITTLE—YOU'RE JUST AS BAD AS HE IS! _I HATE YOU!_"

Severus had obviously not taken his potion recently.

"_Goddamn it, shut _up_, Snape!_" Mumbled curses flittered about, before another window flew open and something was heaved from it. "NARCISSA! SHUT HIM THE FUCK UP!"

"BUGGER THE FUCK OFF, BLACK!" Severus shouted back, sounding both completely trashed and completely pissed off.

"Severus, darling, whatever are you—" Narcissa's soft voice barely traveled to the others' ears, before she stopped abruptly and said in a choked voice, "Oh my."

Then she started laughing.

"_'CISSA_!" Severus exclaimed in outrage, and everyone else's curiosity became nearly unbearable. "HOW DARE YOU MOCK ME AT A TIME LIKE THIS? CAN YOU NOT _SEE_—"

"Oh, I _see_ alright." She interrupted, before breaking out in a fresh round of girlish giggles. "You—"

"SHUSH, WOMAN, SHUSH! FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, DO YOU _WANT_ EVERYONE TO BLOODY KNOW!?"

"Darling, I believe they can hear you now." She cackled, her feeble attempt at sincerity failing miserably.

"WHAT DID YOU—OH. THEY CAN? OH."

"Just how much Nirvana have you had tonight, love? And how in Tartarus did your—"

"_SHHH!!!!_ BLOODY HELL, WOMAN, BE _QUIET_!"

"Oh gods, what is it!?" Sirius cried, hanging half out of his window without a seeming _inch_ of fabric anywhere on him, his face lit up like an eager boy's as he no doubt was thinking of several horrible, gruesome things that could have befallen Severus, none of which he would object to. In fact, he'd probably forego sleep altogether in favor of celebrating.

"CURSE YOU, BLACK, CURSE YOU A MILLION TIMES OVER! THIS WAS MOST LIKELY _YOUR_ IDEA, YOU MANGY, CANINE BAST—"

"What the hell is going on here?" A voice like charged ether swept over and through them, and all muttered whisperings and furious shouts immediately came to a halt. "Well?"

None dared refuse that tone, and all started speaking at once.

"Fucking Snape—"

"Started yelling, no idea—"

"Wasted on Nirvana and probably bloody hallucinating—"

"Narcissa must be holding out again—"

"Moody, cranky old mage with _hormones_—"

"Shove his bloody potions kit up his bloody _arse_—"

"WE JUST WANT SOME SLEEP!"

The last was a communal shout, and the entire situation was a good example of what too much partying could do to people, even pureblooded, aristocratic people such as themselves.

"If someone doesn't talk with something resembling sense within the next few moments," that spectral, haunting voice said silkily, "I swear to the Lady that I'll make you _all_ pay, as I was quite enjoying myself before this bloody racket started. Now, what occurred here?"

"Ask Severus." Sirius said anxiously, obviously still dying to know what had happened to his arch-nemesis.

"Fine. Severus?"

Upon later reflection, having Severus speak for himself had been foreseeably regrettable. Too bad they were all too fucked up to foresee it _then_, however.

"OH, OH, SO _NOW_ SOMEONE WANTS TO LISTEN! HOW BLOODY FUCKING _REFRESHING_!"

A low growl came from a Royal throat, and anyone sane would have stopped. But Severus with a little Nirvana in him? Nooooooooo. There were _reasons_ that they'd started keeping him away from the shit, after all.

"THAT LITTLE HELL-CHILD THAT YOU CALL A SON HAS REALLY DONE IT THIS TIME! I WON'T BE PLAYED THE FOOL AGAIN, OH NO, NOT SEVERUS SABOLA SNAPE! I'VE HAD _ENOUGH_, I TELL YOU, _ENOUGH_, AND THIS IS THE LAST BLOODY BROOM-STRAW!"

Someone whistled, low and incredulous, while someone else snickered and whispered loudly, "_Sabola?_"

They'd all had _way_ too much spice. And wine. And seventy-year-old firewhiskey…

But their highly annoyed King, however, apparently had _not_. "Damien!"

Silence. Then a dull groan and displaced air as double doors opened slowly. "Yes?"

"Out here. Now."

Damien crept forward silently, all effortless grace and hip-length raven hair, his ivory skin illuminated by the twinkling starlight. He wore baggy, black silk pajama pants as if the material had been created specifically for him, and an open night robe of crushed, forest-green velvet that billowed behind him but never touched the ground. Magic was a wonderful thing. No circlet held his long, flowing hair in place as one usually did, since it was six in the morning and he was in a courtyard of the Palace where the Royal wing met the Family wing. His charcoal-rimmed silver eyes seemed to glow with their own light, and his face was a mirror of three others', ethereal and stunning.

"What did you do to your grandfather now?" Blaise demanded, and Damien batted his lacey lashes at him innocently.

"I did nothing, papa." He said truthfully for once, and Blaise's indigo eyes narrowed.

"Is that so?" The High King drawled lazily, contained irritation and anger looming just under the surface of that fair flesh. "And where is Tristen?"

Damien bit his lip and looked away. "I don't know." Now he was lying. He might not have known at first, but he would by then. He _always_ knew where his twin was when he wished it. Not that that was usually an issue, seeing as how they were rarely apart for any real length of time.

"Damien." Blaise snarled in warning, and the Prince stiffened, but said nothing, looking resolutely away. He could charm raw meat away from a thestral and spew refined bullshit through his teeth with little effort involved, but the children of the Royals found it incredibly difficult to do so when it came to the Royals themselves. Funny, that.

"ANSWER HIM, YOU LITTLE INGRATE!" Oh goody, Severus hadn't passed out yet. Joy. Damien sneered in his direction, though he was still hidden somewhere in the bushes, or so it sounded.

"Don't you have something better to be doing, grand-père?" Damien asked, his melodious voice acidic and slightly amused. ((grandfather))

"NO! NOT AFTER — AFTER _THIS_! HE'LL BE A FUCKING _HUFFLEPUFF_ WHEN I'M THROUGH WITH HIM!"

Narcissa gave an outraged gasp. "Severus! That is not funny!"

"I DON'T CARE! LOOK, 'CISSA, _LOOK_ AT WHAT THEY'VE _DONE_ TO ME!"

"I know, Sevy, but surely it can be fixed…somehow."

"DON'T CALL ME _'SEVY'!_ HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO BLOODY ASK—"

"_Silence!_" Blaise hissed venomously, and it instantly fell. "Damien, call your brother, _now_, or I'll do it myself and it won't be pleasant for either of you. Do you have any idea what I left behind to come and police this stupid squabble? And no doubt that it's due to another of your…whatever the hell you call torturing the entire Kingdom. I mean, honestly, Draco has _strawberries_, and yet here I am. Do you know what he likes to _do_ during these beloved little berry hazes? Because I'm sure I could find the time to explain it in _detail_ if your brother isn't here in less than a minute."

Damien's face had paled to a sickly gray and he grimaced. "Tristen!" Apparently, twin loyalty didn't hold out against threats of knowing more about his parents' sex lives then he ever wanted to.

Seconds trickled by in slow motion, no Tristen appeared, and Severus was making funny noises from wherever he was. Damien appeared to be getting agitated, his full lips pursing and his mercury eyes narrowing, before he told his father to hold on a moment, black wings shifting into shape a second before he was airborne and shooting up and to the left. Roughly fifteen seconds later, he dove and there was a muffled curse, a few growls and a small explosion of ice. A stream of fire followed it, black marble reflected it, and Blaise was getting ever more impatient, blue eyes slightly glazed. After the sixth loud 'BANG', he rolled his eyes.

"Fucking hell." Then he was airborne himself, identical wings of ebony feathers beating powerfully as he shot towards them, faster and more agilely perfect in flight than any bird could hope to be. He was upon them moments later and shooting back towards the others almost instantaneously, dragging them both through the air with him by their hair, hair so exactly like his and Draco's own. They landed and he released them before spinning on Tristen furiously.

"Do not even try to say that you didn't know your presence was requested." Blaise started, only to be stopped from saying anything more by the sudden appearance of Severus from, as expected, the bushes.

And what a sight it was.

His fucked up stupor of fury was suddenly understandable. All but the Royals had tasted of the twins' pranks, so adequate sympathy mostly overrode their irritation at wanting a few hours of sleep before they started all over again later, seeing as how Blaise's kin, the Delacours, were hosting a ball that night. Because Severus…Oh, it was truly a tragedy if they'd ever seen one. His hair, his skin, his robes…everything was striped red and gold. _Everything_. Bright, gaudy bands of the Gryffindor colors covered him from head to foot, and knowing the twins, they wouldn't be able to simply be removed with a spell. Appalled, the others couldn't help but stare.

Severus was _enraged_, veins pulsing in his forehead and neck, not that you could see them all that well due to the…the pigments? It could have been, perhaps, or they might have really changed the very make-up of his cells in order to accomplish such a feat. Regardless, every inch of his skin was horizontally striped, red-gold-red-gold, and his hair looked as if he'd received the worst dye job possible. Not to mention that it was stuck through with leaves and twigs, which seemed to highlight the slightly wild look in his black eyes. The robes did nothing for him, all garish-red and sunshine-yellow, and he knew it, among other things.

Sirius immediately began cackling delightedly.

"Sweet fucking Hera, oh Merlin, where's my…SILANA! GET THE CAMERA! YOU WON'T BLOODY _BELIEVE_ THIS!"

But something, or, more specifically, some_one_ caught Severus's attention before he could try to climb the wall to Sirius's window.

"YOU!" He exclaimed when he saw Tristen, whose platinum hair was windblown satin falling in soft waves around a face that was an exact replica of his twin's own, as well as their fathers'. Vibrant cerulean eyes regarded the gaudily colorful figure neutrally, and only the burns on the Prince's robes and the lingering frost testified to what had occurred not too far away only moments before. He was resplendent in silver and black, every movement royal and regal in a completely unconscious way, which made it ever more appealing and fascinating. It was sometimes eerie to watch him and his brother together, just as it was to watch the Kings. Because they were so…similar, so very much like one person instead of two, that it could be a bit mystifying at times.

"Grand-père."

"FIX IT! FIX IT NOW!"

"Hmm." Tristen cleared his throat. "Can't do that, I'm afraid."

Everything stilled, and then Severus exploded. _Again_, that is.

"_WHAT!?!?_"

"There's a delay—"

"DELAY? WHAT BLOODY DELAY? FOR HOW _LONG_? DO YOU REALIZE WHAT TONIGHT _IS_, YOU THOUGHTLESS FUCKING—"

"Severus." A clipped word from Blaise, accompanied by a sneer well known to everyone in the Court, had Severus changing words mid-sentence.

"…CHILD." And that didn't sit much better with the Prince, though the King appeared satisfied. He was still quite irritated, it would seem. No one wondered why after strawberries had been mentioned. It was a long-standing rule, almost law, that if one saw the Sovereigns with that particular fruit, then they were to be left the fuck alone. And if one didn't see, and therefore interrupted them unknowingly, then they'd still better be prepared for the sadistically sulky moods that their majesties would be in.

"I am not a child." Tristen glared, and it was more than potent.

"YES, YOU _ARE_! DO YOU REALIZE WHO'S GOING TO _BE_ AT THE DELACOURS' BALL? _DO YOU?_"

"Who's that, grand-père?" Tristen inquired, the smallest smirk tugging at his bruised-looking lips and his silver hair falling over one deceptively innocent eye.

"THAT OLD BITCH MCGONAGALL!"

Silence. And then Blaise started laughing.

Everyone simply stared as he snickered madly, putting one black-nailed hand against a statue of Isis for support as he struggled to breathe, since it _did_ require air in order to have such a sudden attack of hysterics. And he wasn't alone, as they could hear Sirius howling with sheer glee in the room beyond his window. Severus looked shocked, then affronted, then as if he were going to pass out, before turning furious again. Blaise was leaning fully on the statue at that point, and it raised a marble arm to encircle his waist, since his wings had been the only things keeping him on his feet. He was rarely so truly amused, and they watched with something like awe.

Then there was a horridly bright flash and a loud 'CLICK'.

"Yes!" Sirius crooned, back in the window with telltale purple smoke lingering in the air around him.

"NO YOU JUST _DIDN'T_, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Severus said after a dazed moment that had quickly been followed by realization, even in his Nirvana-clouded mind. Narcissa really needed to take him to bed soon, because he was never, ever, _ever_ going to live this down as is.

It _was_ quite hilarious once you got past the blinding, mind-fucking colors.

"I'm gonna blow it up." Sirius was fantasizing, clutching the camera to his chest like a loved one. "I'm gonna blow it up and charm it onto giant Yule cards. And then, when they become a Kingdom-wide hit, I'm going to expand the Black vaults a little more to horde all of the proceeds. A small mountain of gold built upon Severus's humiliation. Thank you, Loki." He said seriously, looking up at the sky as he addressed the mischievous deity. "Thank you so fucking much."

"Well." Tristen said cheerfully, slowly backing away with an inborn grace that could make plebeians faint dead away. "I really don't know why you care about _her_, grand-père. You have not aged a day since I've known you, yet she is wrinkled and gray. What difference does it make?" And then, because he has the same uncaring, 'fuck-you-if-you-don't-like-what-I-say' attitude that his fathers specialized in, and he therefore simply couldn't help himself (or so he explained it when questioned), he added, "Did you fancy her or something?"

Severus froze, blinked several times as his throat convulsed in an effort not to be nauseous, and Narcissa stepped from the shadows, shaking her head and looking forlorn.

"You know, I always did wonder about you two…" She trailed off with a sigh, Severus half-yelped in horror mingled with disgust, and Blaise started humming between slowly fading snickers while Sirius sang the lyrics to some lecherous song they'd learned years ago, twisting the words until Severus looked about ready to spontaneously combust.

Thank the gods for petite Princesses and their innate curiosity.

"What's going on?" A smooth, cultured voice called before Severus could start freaking out again, and two girls dropped from the roof to the blue-green grass.

The one on the right was Anton and Pansy's youngest daughter, Livia, a Royal witch of sixteen with her mother's dark, mahogany hair, which hung to the middle of her back. She also had her eyes, a deep, rich brandy that was more gold than brown, as well as her calm, careful disposition. She thought before she spoke, and she calculated every situation that she came across with care. Blue robes clung to the curves that had only recently developed, the hem swishing around her slippers, and a cloak of the same color was pinned across her shoulders with the Parkinson crest. A slight, soft smile played on her lips, and she gave a smooth curtsey to her uncle, the King.

The other witch was a High Royal, the sister of the twin Crown Princes, and she was the jewel of her family. Hair as dark and bloody red as her mother's fell to her waist, braided intricately and twined through with black ribbons. She bore one sapphire eye and one silver eye, the marks of her fathers, and there was a telltale charcoal ring around each. Her robes were green and flowing, embroidered with platinum thread, and her every movement screamed of power and grace. She, too, wore a velvet cloak, but it was held in place by a broach stamped with the Weasley crest, as she was the heiress to that family after her mother. She kissed her father's cheek, and Blaise sighed.

"Why are you two still awake? You know that you are expected at Bella's this afternoon so that you can go shopping with her." The King reminded her, and she smirked.

"I know, papa, and we will be there." Blyss agreed. "But who could possibly sleep with all of the noi—_grand-père!?_"

"Oh gods." Livia breathed, one small hand rising to stifle her giggles, and Blyss didn't even bother, leaning against her best friend in order to keep her feet underneath her. Severus scowled darkly, opened his mouth to shout some more, and promptly fell over with a dull 'thud'. Several more loud clicks could be heard, accompanied by Sirius's overjoyed sniggering, and Narcissa sniffed as the others' laughter echoed over the dark marble.

"It's not very nice to find amusement in his suffering." She said with a straight face and cold, husky-like eyes. Blyss blinked and snorted delicately.

"Come off it, grand-mère." She scoffed. "It's bloody hilarious!" Then, with a swift spin, she turned to her brothers. "How did you do it?" ((grandmother))

Damien looked affronted. "_I_ didn't!"

"Uh-huh." A roll of multi-colored eyes. "Whatever." She shot a sly glance at her other brother before continuing. "Everyone knows that _you're_ the mind behind the mayhem, Damien."

"Hey!" Tristen objected, glaring at his sister. "You jealous little bitch, I—"

"_Tristen_."

The elder twin paled. "But papa—"

"I'm so fucking finished with this that it is no longer anything resembling amusing." Blaise cut him off. "I've also come to learn that where one is causing chaos, the other isn't far behind. And whether you, Damien, knew that he would be doing this now or not, I'm positive that you had some hand in its creation. I also have a good mind to tell your mother."

"Goddamn you, Tristen!" Damien spat, shoving his twin roughly. "You were supposed to _wait_, you great prat! Mum's going to _kill_ us because of the ball tonight!"

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll—"

"_Shut up_." Their father hissed, and both did. "I am, however, going to forget mentioning this, since I have plans of my own with her that don't involve her being annoyed with you two. Therefore, I want you off the moon within the hour."

"Fine." Tristen sulked. "And where shall we be carted off to?"

The King thought for a moment. "Anton's. Now go."

Both twins looked instantly happier. "Anton's? All right. Can we leave now?"

"Pansy is returning there shortly. Go to her rooms and she'll arrange everything since you two couldn't pack so much as sickle in a bag the size of Scotland without a house elf helping you." He paused, and then added, "Or without somehow blowing it up in the process."

"We love you, too, papa." Damien said sarcastically, before giving him a quick, lip-to-lip kiss that was customary between Royals and ruffling his sister's hair, to her eternal ire. Tristen mirrored his actions perfectly, and they were gone in a single blink.

All in all, it was just another night on Luna.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Thirty minutes later, Livia watched with an almost imperceptible smirk as Blyss banged on Livia's mother's door, before her fist fell and rested on her hip. She was prepping herself for a fight, since at least two of the people within those rooms were about to be quite irritated with her, and Livia found it all quietly entertaining. The large ebony doors swung open of their own accord, and it was only courtesy that had made Blyss knock in the first place. Stepping into the room lit softly with candlelight, they saw Pansy standing in the center of the parlor, directing a small army of scurrying house elves while Tristen and Damien sneered at the new arrivals.

"Hello, darlings." She said, accepting their greeting kisses with a distracted air, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she grew nearer and nearer to seeing her mate for the first time in nearly a month. "What do you need?"

"We want to come with you." Blyss said in her Princess voice, her eyes shooting daggers at her brothers.

"What?" Tristen asked sourly at her look. "Like we give a fuck if you come with us."

Oh.

"_Honestly_, Blyss." Damien continued. "We like Livia enough to forgive her for bringing you along."

"Why, _thank_ you, brother dear." Blyss snarled, flashing deadly fangs.

"Think nothing of it." The twins replied in unison, dismissing her with a wave of pale, identical hands.

"Enough, you three." Livia's mother said with a fond smirk. "I won't have you fighting the whole trip to Terra. Gods know that you do so enough already."

"Us?" Tristen questioned incredulously. "We _never_ fight! What _would_ the commoners think if the Royal family constantly bickered?"

"I believe they think quite a lot about it." She replied, shaking her head when a tiny elf held up a gods-awful yellow gown. Noticing their disgusted expressions, her smirk grew. "What? It was a gift from Arabella Figg's niece."

"I knew I smelt strange cats in here." Damien murmured. "Now, are you almost done? I haven't seen Uncle Anton in _ages_."

"_You_ haven't?" Pansy huffed. "You went hunting giant boar with him last week! And yes, I believe everything's in order. Our guards are staying here, and will rejoin us later at the ball. Come along."

She swept from the room as the last house elf disappeared, and they trailed after her, the twins teasing their sister about some wizard that had come seeking her hand in marriage the day before. He was only the last in a never-ending line, since every mage alive seemed to want their bloodlines tied to those of the Royal children. The offers and proposals seemed to have no end in sight, and the young man of yesterday was just another blurred face, but Livia stiffened all the same. She didn't want to think about Blyss marrying some dolt and leaving her for a life of wedded duty. She didn't want to think about losing her best friend at all, actually.

It was a welcome relief when they reached the large yard full of ether coaches, which only the Royals, their families and a few other select individuals were authorized to use, everyone else taking the lunar transports. They climbed inside the nearest one, and the ride was so common by then that they barely registered it. They only paid attention again when it landed, and soon enough they stood on a starlit field to the left of a massive manor. Black granite stretched on forever, and the woods sat close by, encircling the huge house that had been in the McGregor line for…for a very long time. It was creepy and haunting to most, but to Livia, it was home.

"Father!" She exclaimed happily when he came out the front doors, and she was in his arms a moment later, giving him the typical greeting kiss before burying her face in his chest.

He smelled of myrrh and wood smoke, his chin-length raven hair tickling her cheek as he lifted her and spun her around, causing peal after peal of delighted laughter to pour from her. She hadn't seen him in weeks, thanks to the problems in the muggle world, and she didn't think she could be more pleased until her two of her uncles stepped out behind him. Fred and George were as haughty and arrogant and infinitely sly as always, but it wasn't until she was wrapped up between them that she smelt the blood. Yanking back, she sniffed again and followed the intoxicating scent to its sources. Both had foot-long gashes down their left sides.

"What happened?" She demanded, and they shrugged.

"A group of young mages in Siberia thought to try their luck out past the wards." They said evenly, though rage burned in their blue eyes. "We got there in time, but the muggles had just come across them, so we had to kill them."

"And one actually managed to wound you?" She said, looking at George since his was deeper, and was therefore the true wound, not the one born of their twinbond.

"They get lucky every once in a while." He replied, still grinning, and she shook her head.

"And why haven't you healed it?"

They suddenly looked sheepish.

"Oooooh, I know why." She taunted. "Because Aunt Padma and Aunt Virginia will know then, won't they? It's not very smart to hide such things from them, you know."

"Leave them be, Livia." Her father interceded, his arm wrapped tightly around her mother's waist. "And Selene is here. She wished to speak with you the next time you were home, and she saw the coach land."

Livia froze, looking at her father in dismay. She didn't want to see Selene again. _Ever_. She and her eldest sister couldn't get along if their souls depended on it, and that would never change. She got along with her eldest brother, Morven, well enough and he was Selene's best friend, but how he stood the bitch, she would never know. Selene was beautiful, with their grandfather Philippe's shockingly blond hair and her eyes a unique blend of honey and hazel, but she was too…too stiff, too formal, and Livia never seemed to do anything right in her eyes. Selene loved Morven and hated Livia and their two other siblings. It was just the way of things.

"Do I _have_ to?" She very nearly whined, and a flash of long-buried annoyance flashed through her father's eyes.

"I understand," he began slowly, while her mother closed her eyes wearily and rested her head on his shoulder, "that the age difference between you and Selene is still significant, but if you choose immortality as she has done, then it will seem like nothing in coming years. This…this intense dislike that you harbor for one another gets neither of you anywhere, and I grow tired of having to schedule my life to fit around your ongoing drama. Do you not think that I would like to be able to have you and your other sister sit in a room together with Selene without blood spilling? Do you not think that I would like my daughters to show one another something besides loathing?"

"Father, I—I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I'll go talk to her now, oui?" Gods, she hated upsetting him, disappointing him. It was like a knife in the gut, and she resolved to try harder from now on, no matter how nauseating the idea of time with her stern sister was.

"I'll come with you." Damien offered, and she saw the knowledge in his silver eyes when he glanced at her. He knew how her sister really was when she wasn't around her parents. Tristen met her eyes as well, and took his sister's hand in his when she looked a silent entreaty at him. There was no reason for Blyss to be abandoned just because Livia had to go socialize with a bright-haired _harpy_.

"Thank you, Damien." She said gratefully, and then kissed her mother, father and uncles before dragging him inside and up the nearest set of west stairs. Four twisting hallways later, she stopped and leaned against the wall, the true horror of the situation only then hitting her. She had to…to _talk_ to that…that fucking _cunt_, and she didn't _want_ to, not ever, _ever_ again after the last time…

"Livia, love, calm down." Damien whispered, nipping her ear playfully with sharp teeth. "Don't think on that. I'm here this time, remember? You know I'd never let her touch you."

"But…but what if she…I'll kill her this time, I swear…"

"_She won't_." He stressed, and something feral and murderous lurked in that satiny voice, something that wasn't easy to forget once you'd heard it before and seen it fill those platinum eyes. At seventeen, he and his twin were delving ever deeper into darkness, and they were the Crown Princes of the Realm, not to mention two of her closest friends. If he said that Selene wouldn't touch her, then she believed him.

"Alright."

"Good. Now, we're close, aren't we? Tristen and I have only been to her chambers here once."

Livia stopped breathing. "What?"

"I said that—" Realization washed over his face. "You thought…bloody _hell_, Livia. She's a little bitchy for our tastes. And she hurt you, and you're our friend. We didn't bloody fuck her, you strange shrew."

And she could breathe again. "Thank the gods, because I swear I would have told Blyss, and she'd kill you for it."

"Blyss _does_ despise Selene, doesn't she?" He sounded quite pleased with that fact. "Okay, look, I'll shift and hide under your robes, and if she tries anything stupid, I'll kill her."

"Damien! You can't _kill_ her!"

"You just said that _you_ would!" He argued, and she only stopped from having a nervous breakdown when she saw the laughter in his mercury eyes.

"Bastard."

"I most certainly am _not_." An arrogant sniff. "I'll have you know that my bloodlines are—"

"Trust me, Damien, I _know_."

"Oh, shut up." Then he was suddenly, well…not there.

She looked down just in time to see a black and silver snake slither underneath her robes, before that scaled body was coiling up her leg and wrapping itself securely around her thigh. Her eyes widened and she cursed, but he just might bite her if she slapped him, so she took a few experimental steps. _Oh, that felt _so_ weird_, she thought, and then she sighed and figured there was nothing for it. Heading down the hall, she half-arsed wished that he would stop flicking that forked tongue places that he _shouldn't_, but arguing with Damien was like arguing with the wind. It would pause, briefly consider you, and then roar right past again, following no will but its own.

"Enter." Her sister's voice called out when she tapped on her door, and Livia walked in cautiously, scanning the room as she would any possibly hostile place.

It was all done in black and gold, like someone had splattered an enormous bumblebee all over the walls, and her sister stood in front of a mirror that took up most of one wall, sticking a million diamond pins in her hair, which had been elegantly piled on top of her head. A gown of gold fit her perfectly, complimenting the skin she'd worked on forever to get to tan, and a matching necklace set with sapphires was clasped around her throat. She ignored Livia for long moments, before slowly turning and looking her sister up and down with a disapproving sweep of her eyes. Her lips pursed, and she held up her hands in a defeated gesture.

"Still as plain as ever, I see." Selene sighed. "Why Princess Blyss bothers with you, I will never understand."

"Father says we must start getting along." Livia ignored her comment and spoke darkly. Selene cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, well, what Father doesn't know won't hurt him." She said with the air of one used to getting her way with him, and Damien tensed around Livia's thigh. "Now, come here and let me see you properly."

Walking a bit closer, Livia sneered, "Like what you see, sister?" She asked in a husky voice, and her sister scoffed.

"Not hardly. Even if you weren't my sister, I'd still never look twice. You are no great beauty."

"Oh, of course not." She agreed, and her next words were sugary sweet. "But I know of two _much_ more beautiful than either of us. Blyss and L—"

"Do not speak our wretched sister's name to me!" Selene snapped, and Damien's hiss crept along Livia's skin.

"Why ever not? I know you've always been jealous of her, but truly, she is only a year older than I am, and a mere _babe_ compared to you, remember?"

"I am not jealous of that twisted little hussy!" Selene's cheeks took on the slightest pink tinge, and Livia grabbed her thigh to try and stop Damien, who had loosened up and nearly escaped her robes at those words. "What are you doing?" Her sister suddenly looked suspicious, and Livia let go once she was sure he'd calmed minutely again.

"Nothing, just a cramp. And you most certainly _are_. Not to mention being fucking _terrified_ of her, and—"

"How dare you!" Her sister shrieked, losing her cool since they were alone, or so she thought. Suddenly remembering her promise to her father, Livia stopped, mentally cursed, and did something that she'd told herself she would never do.

"I'm sorry."

Gods, that had actually _hurt_.

"What?" Her sister stopped dead in front of her, less than a foot away, and gaped slightly. "Did you just…_apologize_ to me?"

Livia considered suicide.

"Yes."

"Well, well, well." Selene drawled, running a manicured fingernail down her sister's cheek. "How charming. But I don't accept apologies from _whores_." Then she shoved her back a step, Livia clutched at Damien again, and she laughed.

"I am not a whore." Livia spat out between gritted teeth, and Selene regarded her for a moment, still laughing, before she composed herself in the blink of an eye and spoke vehemently.

"Yes, you are. I've heard of the 'flesh games' you Slytherins play, but that is no excuse to sleep with everything that walks."

Livia would have bet her inheritance that Selene would _die_ before saying that in front of their parents.

"Well, Miss Righteous Ravenclaw, you have no idea what you're missing."

"So you admit it."

"Of course I do. Why deny something so blatantly true? Everyone knows of our ways."

"Yes." Her sister intoned nastily. "They do. Do you know what it's like to have to listen to my friends gossip over the fact that you and Prince Tristen were seen in Knockturn Alley mauling each other, or that you and Prince Damien snuck off at the World Cup, or that you and Prince Atreus—"

"Just shut up, Selene." Livia said, already bored. "No one cares but you, not even your stupid, stuck-up friends."

"Do not speak of my friends that way." Selene glared. "At least I keep better company than _you_." As soon as she said it, she paled the slightest bit and looked around nervously.

"Ah, you forget yourself, dear sister." Livia crooned. "Because my best friends are the children of our Sovereigns and the other Royals, and the darkness will carry your words to the Night Brides."

Not to mention the snake coiled around her thigh.

"I hate you." Selene snapped, backing up a step. "I hate you so much that it eats at me, so much that I—"

"That you _what_?" Livia said, beginning to lose her temper. It took quite a bit to get her truly angry, but her sister was doing a damn fine job of it. "Realize how much of a fucking _hag_ you are?"

It all took a second, nothing more.

Selene's fist shot out, déjà vu gripped her, and she knew she could never avoid it. Not that she feared it, though. No, because she trusted Damien explicitly, and that faith was rewarded when the snake was gone and he was suddenly before her, eyes crackling and freezing cold all at once. _He_ could have stopped that flying fist, but he didn't, letting it slam into his face as Selene's eyes widened with horror. Bones cracked but they weren't his, and she screamed, falling back and to the floor, cradling her shattered hand in her lap before scrambling to her knees, her grace gone as the fury of a High Royal coated the room in lethal malevolence.

The snickering, smirking Prince was gone, the Heir to the Thunder Throne in his place.

"Never," his voice was venomous, ethereal, chilling and majestic, "have I been so infuriated by one of Anton's blood. There is no excuse for this, and none will be listened to, I assure you. Your snotty, holier-than-thou bullshit has been looked over for years because we adore the rest of your family, but no longer. A month in the fields stripped of your titles should teach you respect, and if it does not, then I'm sure I can dredge up something _else_."

Selene sobbed, dismayed and scared and full of dread, but she knew better than to argue.

"Damien!" A familiar voice called from the hall a moment before the door flew open, and the Princess took in the scene before her, a cruel smile breaking out on her sculpted face.

"What is it, Blyss?" He asked thinly, and her smile faded a little as she gave her brother a strange, knowing look.

"Lithia returns."

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Behold the first chapter! (snickers) Please review!


	3. Bonds of Shrouded Secrets

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Responses to my fabulous reviewers: tkmoore**, love you. (sighs happily) just love you. **sillysun**, umm…well, you get to meet Lithia. (hides face) she might be different than expected, however…oh, and…update! (cackles) **BlueJeanJunkie**, you are sooooo awesome! I _adore_ your reviews! (huggles you and bows at your feet) **pulchritudeXx**, (gapes at long, delicious review) you are too cool! thanks! and I hope you like the girls more later on, lol! **SkotosEnigma**, you like the names? (smiles contentedly) nifty. and I'll check your stuff regularly (not that I don't already, lol). **Tytianne**, yay! you like her! yay! (grins insanely) **Lady Hateya**, well, I hope there haven't been too many casualties, lol. and thanks! I really enjoy your reviews! **otaku**** sae**, you like her eyes! that makes me quite happy! and thank you! **Voldemort8**, well, I hope that this is un-fluffy enough for you, lol! **me**, thanks! glad you liked it! and give me your e-mail, and I'll send you the link! **potatomaker**, thanks! that was a totally blush-worthy compliment! **Darkness**, thank you! wouldn't want you dying, lol. **Flower4444**, sorry if it was too long, and thanks for reviewing, as always! **bigreader**, no, I meant the first real chapter after the prologue, lol. and I hope this was soon enough! **aoi-yuki-yume**, thanks, and sorry about the name, but, well…(shrugs) couldn't resist. :) **angelfire33**, lol! I knew you'd dig a sequel! thanks for reviewing! **quimbytimmons**, thanks, and I'm really sorry if it was confusing. I tend to get that way sometimes. (smiles sheepishly) **gin rose raposo1**, lol! thank you, and you might just get your wish…sometime. :P **Wicked Not Evil**, thanks! I'm glad you liked that part! **Raithen**, umm…how about Ireland? It's really pretty there, lol. **coffeechick87**, thanks so much! and I'll try to make them as un-confusing as possible! **afici0nada**, thank you so much! that really means a lot to me! **LEGOSGURL**, thanks for understanding, and I hope you like this chapter! **Twilight Antediluvian**, thank you!! and it says her beloved _and_ Fred and George, lol. I know I get much too confusing at times, so…sorry! **sharon**, thanks! glad you like it! **Headmaster Cromwell**, well, I sent in my application. :)

**Author's Note: **Fanart has been done for 'Unexpected' by the awe-inspiring **cupid12203**, courtesy of the goddess **tkmoore**. If any of you want the link (since I can't seem to ever get one to work on this site), then just let me know.

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Blyss thought many things over the scene that she had just witnessed, but they could wait, she decided as she sped down the hall to the nearest alcove with a window. The ornate latch on the two creations of stained glass, a style the Royals had grown quite fond of again, was shaped like the claw of a dragon, and it slid easily up at her touch. She was keyed into all of the Royals' assorted properties, and no wards went off, no creatures of legend swooped in to devour her whole. No, the double windows simply swung open wide, and she was on the window seat and stepping out a second later. Air rushed past her, but she didn't bother slowing her fall.

Booted feet slammed into the earth moments later as she landed in a crouch, and she looked up through bloody red hair at the approaching riders. Anton's attention briefly turned to her, and a silent question passed between them. He'd felt Damien's anger almost as clearly as she had, and he'd sent her up in the first place. She'd only seen the riders right before she'd disappeared inside, and there was no mistaking the banner fluttering from the saddle of the first. They were closer now, the beginning rays of sunlight just breaking through the clouds and shining off their silver chain mail and the gem-encrusted ribbons braided into their steeds' manes and tails.

Silently, using 'the language of the eyes', as her mother and Padma called it, which was basically the ability to see what was held within the mirrors to one's soul, she promised to speak to him of it later. He might have argued had the measured hoof beats of the mighty Aethonans not drawn ever nearer, their chestnut hides and feathered wings gleaming like bloody gold in the ever-spreading dawn. Only the lead horse differed from the rest, being a Granian with a coat of rare silver instead of gray, and the banner it bore singled it out. The others bore the McGregor crest, but not the blue-black rose that was perfectly whole on one side, withered and decayed on the other.

No, that belonged to Lithia and Lithia alone.

Blyss stood as Damien and Livia landed behind her, and her gaze briefly trailed to Tristen, who watched the party's approach with blank, hooded blue eyes. The winged horses finally passed through the inner section of wards, which wavered and gave the smallest pulse of divinity, and then the controlled, courtly gait of the wild, freehearted creatures was let loose, and they covered the last half a league in a swooping, diving dance of reckless skill. Their riders were talented enough on their own just to keep their seats, and they allowed the bravado because it was well known that all the breeds of the winged giants were bloody showoffs.

They landed again less then ten yards from those on the lawn, the ground literally shaking from their muscled bulk, and Blyss was glad for her braids, or the wind churned up by their wings would have severely annoyed her. Her eyes went straight to the Granian, to Lithia, who had managed to keep her hood pulled low over her face throughout the potentially deadly race to the manor. Her cloak was black, embroidered and lined with purple velvet, the tunic underneath her armor a dark, vibrant emerald, and added to the shining mail and the silver flashes of hilts and arrow shafts, she was the picture of Slytherin pride and Royal dignity.

But then again, Blyss suspected that she would be that even clothed in rags and covered in mud and grime.

Lithia dismounted with a single, agile leap, and her guards and the other warriors followed after her. She, unlike Livia, did not rush into their father's arms, but he was the first she bestowed the greeting kiss upon, shortly followed by her mother. Fred and George received the same warm but aloof sign of favor, before Lithia pulled back and Blyss noticed the bloodstains littering her mail and cloak for the first time. But sight alone clarified that it wasn't Lithia's own, so Blyss stayed silent for the moment as the older girl pulled back her hood, revealing a head of raven hair the same shade as her father's, except for one major difference.

It was streaked through with white, a sign of her eternal sorrow.

Her eyes were cold, too cold while around both her blood kin and her extended family, but all were so used to it that none said a word. Once, those greener-than-green orbs had held the dark light of a thousand vibrant stars, but it had been years since they had resembled anything but opaque glass. Ghosts of their former brilliance shone through every once in a while around very select people, but it was more haunting and heartbreaking than her typical chilliness most of the time. Blyss thought it sad that one she loved so dearly, a girl bare weeks from turning eighteen, was already so scarred and jaded. But she also knew that it couldn't be helped.

She received her own greeting kiss from her friend along with a knowing smirk, which said quite clearly that Lithia knew exactly what she was thinking. Blyss watched her as she moved on to Livia, the sister she loved rather than despised. Trying to see if the grass-eyed girl had changed in the week that she hadn't seen her, she knew it was foolish. She appeared no different than she had when they'd left Hogwarts last Saturday, her sculpted, aristocratic face as pale as ivory, her lips as red as fresh blood and her eyes lined with dark kohl in the thick, ancient lines of an Initiate and soon to be Priestess of Hades.

And then, with something like a mass collected breath, those watching waited tensely as Lithia moved to where Damien stood, Tristen beside him, though how he'd reached his brother's side without anyone noticing was a long-unsolved mystery. Both watched the pale girl with impassive eyes as she approached, matching coldness for coldness, and everyone else wondered how their game would play out this time. She would either kiss their flawless cheeks with equally flawless lips, or…or she would do what she was currently doing and take a lover's right, claiming their lips with her own. They could thaw her, even if it was only temporary.

And she, in return, could thaw them. It was a cycle, no matter how disturbing it became at times.

"Come, dear Princes, and I shall tell you all about our latest raid." Lithia spoke with the satiny, seductive voice of a nymph, and phantom vestiges of life swirled within those slightly spooky eyes once more.

Slaughtering muggles tended to raise her spirits. She hated them with a ferocity that few could even imagine, let alone understand, but her friends did, because they, too, remembered Luthen all too well. But no one, save Lithia herself, recalled him as clearly as Blyss's brothers did. Perhaps that is what had let Damien and Tristen keep their ties with Lithia after his death. Perhaps their shared grief was what had let their relationship survive that disastrous year, if 'survive' is what you would call it. She mourned a brother; they mourned a love. Tragedy in the Royal family; now _that_ had made headlines for months.

"Whatever you wish, lady." The twins replied in unison, hooded eyes becoming perilous with hunger, and Lithia laughed, a sound scarcely heard as her own eyes drooped to half-mast and she took their hands in her gloved ones, leading them inside with a presumptuousness that few others would dare dream of.

Blyss seemed able to breathe again as they vanished inside the large doors, and she wondered if things would ever be the same as they had been _before_. She had hoped so with her brothers' last outbreak of mayhem, the likes of which hadn't been seen for nearly two years, and she knew that the others had hoped so, too. But it appeared a false hope; one that rang shallow when looked at by the harsh rays of the sun rather than the soft, soothing sensation of starlight. They'd all been deliriously happy for too long, it seemed, and fate had come in to fuck them over when her brothers had barely been sixteen. _Nearly two years to the day today_, she thought bitterly.

"Blyss? Are you coming?" Livia whispered in her ear, and Blyss nodded, following her inside and watching Anton and Pansy discreetly as they headed for the dining hall.

They loved Lithia endlessly, but every glimpse of her reminded them of Luthen. What an empty comfort it must have been to know that on one hand, at least they had not lost both, while on the other, the one that was left was little more than a vessel bent on revenge. And they both loved the Crown Princes, as well as their parents, but they had been able to do nothing as they, too, had reached a level of coldness that had nothing to do with what they had inherited. They had once seen joyful unions between their lines; now they simply watched the distorted, depraved games that a single moment had broken everything into.

"We leave for the Delacours' at eight." Anton said, not even feigning a fake smile as he irritably brushed a dark lock of hair behind one ear. Hazel eyes locked onto Blyss and Livia, and she wished that they didn't look as dull, that they still sparked with devilish mirth as they did in her memories. "I am told that you need to be at Bella's by three. Transportation has been arranged, of course. Virginia will come for you at seven."

"As you say, Uncle." Blyss agreed, and he smirked as he passed them, tugging on one of Blyss's braids and ruffling Livia's hair. Pansy graced them with a half-grin of her own, before following her husband out and shooting a last look towards the west wings. There was silence for a few more moments, before Fred cleared his throat, George poked her shoulder, and she nearly came out of her skin, having momentarily forgotten that they were behind her. "Fucking hell!"

"Real sorry about that, love." George intoned, donning a pitiful face. "It just hurts, you know?"

"But we're okay." Fred insisted with a brave expression. "I mean, how absurd would it be for the Queen's brothers to bleed to death while safe and sound at a McGregor manor?"

"Truly absurd." George replied, placing a hand upon his slowly seeping wound and paling dramatically. "It's good that they're only…ow…scratches."

"Indeed." Fred probed his own long gash. "Ah! Fancy that! Lucky bint got a rib!"

"Okay, okay!" Blyss interceded before one or the other did something like faint, and they stopped immediately, giving her grateful looks. "I'll heal you before you're found out, alright?"

"You are just _sublime_, Blyss." Fred said happily, suddenly quite energized once more, and George echoed him. Rolling her eyes, Blyss let herself temporarily forget anything but her forever-youthful uncles slinking down the hall to the healing rooms, their currently long red hair swaying around them, and Livia's hand in her own, cool and calming.

The rest could at least wait until the ball, surely.

………………………………………………………………………………...

"Mother?"

Padma's head turned as her son called out to her, and she sat aside the seeds she was burying in the soil with infinite care, observing her sons as they walked into the garden where she sat in a simple robe of blue linen. Atreus walked a bit ahead of his twin, not that Arion minded, and Padma smiled as they knelt beside her. They had her dark, rosewood hair and her pale, mocha skin, but the blue eyes were all their fathers' and mixed with the rest quite nicely. Atreus carried a look of constant vigilance, his mind mostly with weapons and warfare, while Arion delighted more in books and learning, though he could defend himself well enough if need be.

"Yes, darlings?" She questioned softly, and for them, it wasn't strange to look upon a face nearly as age-free as their own and name it that of their mother. None of the Royals ever grew any older, nor did those of their families that chose life everlasting, and they were quite used to their elders looking anywhere from two or three years older than them to ten or fifteen at the max, with their grandparents and such. It was all quite normal for two Princes of the Realm.

"Damien and Tristen were kicked off the moon again. We're leaving for Anton's to meet up with them there." Atreus said simply, and Padma nodded.

"I shall see you at the ball, then?" She asked, idly scratching her cheek and leaving behind a smudge of dirt, not that she would have cared had they told her. Regardless, Arion reached out and smoothed away the streak with one velvet sleeve before standing as Atreus rose, pulling his brother with him.

"Yes, Mother, we'll see you at the ball," Arion told her as he was drug away, his twin already more than anxious to leave. She smiled knowingly and blew him a kiss before turning back to her gardening, and Arion hit his brother in the shoulder. "Did you have to bolt so quickly? It wouldn't kill you to spend more time with her, you know."

"I _do_ spend time with her." Atreus protested. "It's just that she's always elbow-deep in dirt, and I'd rather be elbow-deep in—"

"Blood?" Arion cut in, thoroughly exasperated. "There is more to life than battle. I wish the five of you could remember that."

"Yes." His brother agreed with a lecherous sneer. "Because there's also sex and Nirvana and sex and—hmm, that seems to be it."

"You didn't used to think so, none of you did. Lithia used to paint as though her soul leaked out through the pigments, infusing every inch with unknown beauty. Damien and Tristen used to play, symphonies and sonatas spilling from them that I _watched_ entrance even gods. Cyan—"

"Arion." His brother growled in warning, but his twin was not to be deterred.

"Cyan, he used to construct plays as though they manifested in his dreams, drama and intrigue spilling from his lips as he awoke each day. And you, you used to write on anything that you could get your ideas onto, your books, your mirrors, your clothes, your skin…"

"Shut up." Atreus hissed, absently toying with the strap of one wrist sheathe and ignoring the autumn leaves crunching underfoot and the spicy smell to the air. It wouldn't be winter in this part of the Palace for days yet, not that Atreus noticed or cared about such things anymore.

"Why? Why should I stay silent forever? I loved him too, you know, we all did. We grew up together, and I will cherish his memory always, but Luthen would not wish—"

"_Shut up, Arion!_" Atreus snapped, turning and shoving his brother into the marble wall hard. "Just shut the fuck up! You weren't _there_, you don't _know_…"

"How could I?" Arion spat back, finally starting to lose his patience. "None of you will speak a word of that day! All we know is that six of you left and only five returned! It very nearly drove Lithia and the Crown Princes mad, you and Cyan wouldn't even look at any of us, and you all finished the rest of the school year like shades of yourselves. And now, now you all play at something the rest of us just don't get, mostly because you refuse to share any of it. What am I _supposed_ to think, Atreus? What are Blyss and Livia supposed to think, or Sahirah and Madison? Let alone our parents?"

"You know what happened." Atreus said, staring over his brother's shoulder as though the marble held answers that he couldn't find anywhere else.

"No, I don't." Arion pushed away from the wall and just _looked_ at his brother for a moment. There was the same long, shifting hair and light-dark blue eyes, the same lithe figure and haughty posture, but it was all…warped, somehow. Different. And Arion didn't like it one bit. "And I'm beginning to wonder if I know _you_."

"Arion!" His twin called when he was already halfway down the hallway, but he didn't stop. He was tired of secrets and lies, tired of deception and trickery. Perhaps he was too _Ravenclaw_ to understand, but he'd never had a problem understanding his brother before that damned winter day. "Arion, wait!" His arm was taken in a strong, yet unsure, grip, and he froze, trying to simply breathe.

"What?"

"I'll—I'll tell you, alright? I just…can't right now. But I will, I promise."

"Atreus—"

"I _promise_, damn it."

"Bloody hell." Arion sighed, and Atreus started grinning before hugging him somewhat fiercely and grabbing his hand, taking off down the hallway again. They made one stop before their rooms, Atreus knocking on Cyan's doors shortly before throwing them open and stalking inside.

"Cyan! Get your shit together and let's go!"

"Go where?" A smooth voice called back, before Cyan appeared out of the bedroom off to the left.

He wore robes of gray that made his namesake eyes seem even more aqua-colored than usual, and thick, wavy hair fell to the center of his back in meranti waves. A circlet of silver and green garnets held his hair out of his face, and he was more than passing fair. He heavily resembled Anton, but his mother could be seen in his lips and the shape of his eyes. And it was not Pansy that held that title with him, but Melody. The Royal had petitioned Anton and Pansy with her mate, Daphne, right after Pansy was found to be pregnant again. It seemed the two women had wanted a child, and, well…They had chosen Anton to sire it.

Pansy had found it marvelous, and Anton had been quite panicky until he'd realized that he wouldn't be sleeping with Melody to accomplish such a thing. He had before, everyone knew that, but certainly not since each had been bound. Regardless, Cyan had been born little more than a month after Pansy had given birth. He had always known the peculiarities of his parentage, but it didn't bother him. With a family like theirs, blood kin and not, it was hardly all that strange to have more than two parents. He got along with his half-siblings well enough except for Selene, whom he quite despised, but then most of the Royal children detested her.

Which wasn't very surprising if you knew her.

"Our cousins have been sent to whatever manor your father is staying at." Atreus said, throwing open Cyan's wardrobe and summoning several bags. "We're going to meet them and get ready for the ball there."

"We are?" Cyan asked with a sardonic smile, lifting one eyebrow in a very long-suffering sort of way.

"Yes, yes." Atreus replied, distracted as he threw things into the bags, not bothering to do more since everything folded itself. "We already sent our stuff down, and need only to get our cloaks. Blyss and Livia went with the others."

"And what if I said that I couldn't?" Cyan questioned, causing Atreus to stop, arm and robes outstretched. "What if I said that I had other plans?"

"Do you?" Atreus asked as if that had never occurred to him, and Cyan sneered.

"No. But that's beside the point."

"Oh, come off it, Cyan. You know you would rather hang out with us then with some courtier seeking favor or marriage."

"Indeed." Cyan's sneer never lessened, but he said nothing else as his belongings were tossed around into some order that only Atreus understood.

Weapons followed the clothes — not that Cyan didn't undoubtedly have plenty on his person already — and several more minutes passed before Atreus seemed satisfied and spelled the bags closed. He called in a house elf distractedly and told it to take Cyan's stuff and put it with theirs, before herding them both out of the room and down the hall. He whisked into his and his twin's rooms, was gone bare seconds, and whisked back out with their cloaks. Then they were jumping from portal to portal until they reached the ether yard, and the coach ride seemed to take ages to Arion's companions, though he himself rather enjoyed it.

It was midday at Anton's head estate when they arrived, and servants bustled out to greet them and take their luggage almost instantly. They waved them off when asked if they would need anything else, and only relaxed again when they were out of the sunlight and in the dark, cool hallways of Anton's home. The twins found their fathers in the first floor study, sprawled out on couches and drinking spiced wine that made the room smell rich and exotic. They were lazily playing chess, and Fred appeared to be beating George, who looked up as they entered. His knight got smashed moments later, but he didn't seem to mind all that much.

"Your mother didn't send you, did she?" He asked suspiciously, and Arion hid a smirk while Atreus laughed.

"No. How'd you get hurt this time?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, come on, Father. I won't tell." Atreus taunted, and Fred threw the black queen at him.

"Just go find your miscreant friends. They should be in quite the good mood by now."

"Really?" Cyan asked curiously. "And why is that?"

Fred smiled, and it was suddenly strained. "Oh, you know the effect they and Lithia have on each other." Atreus and Cyan paled, Arion felt his agitation growing again, and George drained his goblet before anyone else could speak.

"It went alright this time. They're probably in her rooms." He said neutrally, but Atreus and Cyan had already bolted, and Arion paused only a second before following.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He demanded as they sped up a western staircase, trying not to let their hair blind him.

But neither answered, and they only slowed after several more floors when they came to a large set of intricately carved ebony doors, which bore Lithia's infamous rose. Another set of doors should have been visible about twenty feet down the hall, but a tapestry hung upon the wall there now, and those doors were no doubt chained with stronger stuff than steel. Something inside Lithia's rooms shattered, and Atreus placed one palm upon the wood, obviously hoping that Lithia hadn't keyed him out of her wards since the last time they'd visited. Shadowy fingers formed around his, and they knew that she hadn't when he wasn't pulled into the wood.

The doors swung open slowly, not that the three people inside would have noticed had they crashed open and splintered on the walls. No, two of them were much too busy trying to stay alive, and the third…He hadn't seen her in such a way since Luthen had first been lost. Her eyes were wild, bloody scratches littering her pale cheeks, and she crouched on the low table in front of the fire, a dagger in each hand that dripped thick drops of purple blood onto the carpet. She wore nothing but a thin shift smeared with telltale violet stains, and the vibrant ink of her tattoos shimmered as her muscles flexed and strained with each cautious, crazed movement.

Damien and Tristen circled her, reminding him all too much of prowling Nundu with their swirling eyes and impossibly sharp fangs, each step filled with such dangerous grace that it made your spine crawl with warning just watching it. Both were bleeding from several deep wounds, all in identical places thanks to their twinbond, but they didn't appear to be fazing them much at the moment, not even the potentially fatal ones. No, their attention was all for Lithia, and they looked just as feral and fey as she did. Neither held a weapon of any sort, but he knew the empty-handedness to be treacherous, because lethal claws could spring from those fingers in a heartbeat.

Both were barely dressed, baggy satin pants the only clothes to be seen that weren't in tiny shreds on the floor, and the bewitching Celtic designs that swirled down their arms and sides in black, silver and green ink before disappearing past their waists couldn't be stopped from captivating the eye, much like Lithia's own. Once, four had bore those tantalizing streaks and spins of color, and the one now lost to them was forever remembered to each because of the names. Arion clearly remembered when they'd come home from Romania with the new, timeless art burned into their skin, their eyes filled with secrets and unmatched rapture.

Damien and Tristen both had each other's names between the tops of their shoulder blades, across their spines at the base of their necks, while Lithia's flowed across their right biceps in the exquisite script of the old tongue. But their left arms…those would forever bear Luthen's name, just as Lithia's own flesh would. She had Tristen across her left, Damien across her right, and her brother's where they had one another's. The names were the only things done in a deep purple the color of the strongest Royals' blood, which only thirteen people had laid claim to, that number now down to twelve. And it was the missing one that was slowly tearing their family apart.

"Fuck." Atreus groaned, looking at the scene before them helplessly. A million things raced behind his eyes, a million unsaid, haunting things, but now was not the time to press him over them. Soon, though. Soon.

"What can we d—" Arion started, having only witnessed such madness a handful of times. But the Sovereigns had always been around then, and now they weren't even on the planet. Fabulous. But Cyan cut him off by quickly tying his hair back, shedding his outer robe, and slowly beginning to draw on the darkness as he stalked forward. He, apparently, knew exactly what to do. And that made Arion wonder.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." His brother was murmuring again, murmuring and pulling his own hair back into a severe ponytail, before he was at Cyan's side, and they joined the Crown Princes in circling Lithia, who laughed at their increased numbers.

It ended abruptly and she lashed out just as quickly, her blade slicing Cyan's cheek open, and Tristen swatted the knife out of her hand before she could pull it back in. Snarling, a ball of darkfire lighting up in her fist, she threw it at him just as Damien wrapped a hand in her hair and yanked her backwards. Atreus caught the sphere of black flames, and Tristen was already moving again, catching her fist before she could slam it into Damien's face. Cyan was on her a second later, and Arion simply watched it all a bit dazedly. The Crown Princes could have easily killed her by now, not that they would, but it was dangerous to fight her like they were.

Lithia was skilled warrior, she'd trained with them their whole lives and they'd been taught by their parents, who were the best teachers they could have had. In one-on-one combat, Lithia could floor anyone but a High Royal or her father, and Arion knew that from personal experience. So even though there were four of the best they could claim fighting her, they weren't _really_ fighting her, and that made it a particularly hazardous situation. Arion's musings proved true when Atreus took a knife in the ribs and Tristen nearly lost an eye. That quite aggravated Damien, and it was hands covered in crackling blue energy that latched on to her hips.

"Careful now, Lithia." He whispered into her streaked hair with a vicious sneer. "Wouldn't want to hurt you, love."

"Fuck you." She hissed, slamming an elbow into his stomach and spinning away while he laughed, a sadistic sound that made Arion wish, again, that none of this had ever happened, that he could go back in time and _fix_ it…but that wasn't meant to be.

"You did." Tristen intoned silkily, running an alabaster finger down the claw marks raking his twin's back. "And then you drug us into the past. Again."

"It is not past for me." She returned acidly, throwing the knife in her hand and twisting at the last second so that it went for Cyan rather than Tristen. Aqua eyes clouded briefly with pain as he stumbled back into a divan, the hilt of her blade sticking out of his thigh, and she tugged on a candlestick, which opened a nook in the wall. A sword was in her hand a second later, and Tristen smirked coldly.

"You cannot kill me, Lithia, not even if you want to." He said evenly, while Damien crept closer to the emerald-eyed witch.

"You are not immortal yet, Tristen. You have not yet made your choice."

But he continued on as though she hadn't spoken. "And it will never be _past_, will it? Do you think we miss him any less?"

"Yes." She spat, and there was such torment in her voice that Arion felt like weeping, if he could even remember how. "Sometimes I do. Now I do. Later I won't, and then I will, and won't and will…and you will both leave me because I will never escape his memory, and that will destroy me. So I'll kill you now and save myself the pain."

Mad words, treasonous words, but how could Arion judge her? He had never lost his twin, now had he?

But she had.

Then she was laughing again, a twisted melody of what once sounded fresh and darkly clear, full of promise and life and a million brilliant, glorious things. Now it was empty and broken, and she was a mere reflection of what she once was. One look at Damien and Tristen revealed nothing, their impenetrable masks cloaking all, but he knew that they didn't fare any better. It was not only Lithia that used to have moments like these. It was not only Lithia that had changed to such drastic degrees. They had lost a forth of their souls, and none remained unscathed. Arion had seen the twins appear to regain a bit of their old selves back over the last several weeks, but…

"Yes, love, by all means." Tristen growled, and claws did spring from those fingers then, embedding themselves in the wall and leaving deep furrows behind as he slowly walked towards her. "Kill us and end this. Kill us and make it stop; make him be there when we awake. Kill us and live alone in a bitter, fucked up existence full of self-loathing and other people's pity. Drive that sword into my heart and never blink, love, never flinch. I wish to see you murder me with your eyes wide open."

Disturbing, depraved games. Games that would truly get another of them killed one day.

"Tristen—"

But Lithia never finished, because Damien was suddenly there, eyes flashing with the untapped power of his birthright, and his signet ring sparked as it met her skin. She slumped into his waiting arms instantly, her eyes drifting closed, and Damien sunk to his knees slowly, his hands balled into fists. She curled up like a content cat as soon as she touched the rug, her dark head lying on his lap as though nothing could ever make her happier, judging by the soft, unguarded smile curling across her lips, and the sword fell forgotten next to them. Tristen sunk to the floor where he stood, dead blue eyes staring blankly at the wall, as unmoving as a statue.

"Go." Damien commanded after several tense, shocked moments in which his cousins and his best friend tried to find and form words, failing miserably. He brushed a thick lock of hair off Lithia's face, bit through his bottom lip until it bled, and then smashed a fist into the black fur and marble floor hard enough to shatter it in a foot-wide circle. "_Go!_"

They went.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Blyss stared at her mother in dismay. "_What?_"

"I said," her mother sighed as she smoothed her daughter's hair back and into the net of black pearls and diamonds that connected to her circlet, "that the Marquis Warrington will be in attendance tonight with his wife and sons. He wishes to talk of an alliance with you and your fathers."

"Papa and Father will eat him alive." Blyss scoffed. "If my brothers do not. The Warringtons have nothing grand enough to offer to even make them pause. Papa told me just last week that he pitied the fool that actually stole my heart, because he and Father had decided that I could never marry at all!"

The Queen laughed. "Sweet Circe, Blyss, I seriously doubt that they would truly stop you. They—"

A knock at the doors interrupted whatever she had planned to say.

"Princess Blyss?" A hesitant voice carried to their keen ears. "Prince Anton has just arrived and wishes a word."

Oh. _Ohh_.

"I'll be right with him." She called back, and her mother didn't ask why Anton needed to speak with her, or anything at all.

She simply smiled and waved her on, promising to meet her in the carriage ten minutes before eight. Blyss kissed her cheek gratefully, looked herself over in the mirror quickly, and swept from the room. Anton stood at the end of the hall, looking all of nineteen until you saw his eyes, and he offered her his arm cordially when she reached him. She took it and let him lead her down the hall of Bella's villa to an empty parlor, which was sparsely, but richly, decorated. Several couches were scattered around, books lined the walls, and they sat upon the nearest small sofa. Blyss laid her head on her uncle's shoulder, and let herself soak up the feeling of safety.

"Your brother," Anton started, freeing her curls from the bejeweled net as Blyss blew a strand of his hair from her eye, "why was he so angry?"

"Selene." She replied honestly, and Anton's fingers, which had risen to brush through her recently unbound hair, suddenly tensed and tightened. Had it been just about anyone else, she would have protested the painful grip, but it was Anton, and she didn't mind it. It just…tingled.

"What has she done now?" There was something in his voice as he hissed those words in her ear that made her wonder if maybe he wasn't as blind to the girl's lies and falseness as they had assumed, and she licked her lips quickly.

"Selene hates Livia for many things, Uncle." She said in a low, velvety smooth voice as she tried to decide how much to say. "But Livia only hates her for one. And as much as you and your lady wife wish for them to reconcile, I tell you now, because I love you, that it will never be."

Her uncle didn't look surprised. "And Damien, what did Selene do to enrage Damien?" His grip on her hair lessened, and she was tempted to tell him to not to unwind it from his fingers, that she liked the slight pain, as it reminded her that she was alive. But she didn't, and to her surprise, he seemed to rethink the action anyway. That or he could simply read her that well. Regardless, they tangled in her crimson curls once more, and she formulated a reply.

"I really don't know. I only came at the end, and I haven't had the chance to speak to Livia or Damien properly." She did have a good idea, though.

"As you say." Anton finally responded, fixing her hair once more with the long-acquired skill of a man who lived with a horde of highly bred witches. "I will speak to Damien later myself. Come now, we have a ball to enjoy, do we not?"

"Yes, Uncle."

They joined her mother, Bella and Livia in the carriage, and she sat beside Livia with Anton on her other side. Her mother was lost in conversation with Bella, and both looked radiant. The Queen wore a gown of burgundy velvet embroidered with emeralds, black graphorn hide boots barely peaking from beneath the hem, and the Crown of Fire sat upon her scarlet ringlets. The Mark of Cocidius blazed on one snow-white forearm, the Mark of the Dark Lady on the other, and Blyss gazed upon them with wanting eyes. She herself was an Initiate of Isis, and she dreamed of the Mark with an unrivaled intensity that could become quite staggering and consuming.

A few of the minor gods had taken Chosen since her parents' reign had begun, and even a few of the light Royals had, but none from the Dark Court had yet felt the Call. Or if they had, they had yet to act on it. Her mother turned and met her eyes, and Blyss gave a small grin before leaning into Livia and waiting for the short ride to be over. And it was in almost record time, or so it seemed, and Blyss ignored the sudden sound of cheering and the clicks of cameras mixing in with the reporters' voices. The carriage doors were opened, Bella stepped out looking like a barely-thirty bombshell in tight red silk and stiletto heels, and Blyss and Livia went next.

"Princess Blyss, over here!" One middle-aged witch with a recording crystal cried out, followed by a dozen others, male and female alike.

"Princess Livia, no escort tonight?"

"Inside sources say that you and Lord Nott have split up, is it true?"

"Princess Blyss, where is Prince Cyan? You've been with him a lot recently—"

"Can we get a photo of you both with the Queen?"

"The Queen!"

"Yes, exactly—"

"No, _there_, you fool! Shut up!"

And they did, silence falling as Anton appeared, followed shortly by one gloved hand, though where her mother had gotten the gloves, she had no idea. Anton took it with the patience of the eternal, and her mother slowly emerged from the shadows inside the carriage, the picture of regal majesty. She'd gotten quite good at perfecting it after constant years of such functions, or so she'd told Blyss once, a long time ago. '_The trick is to remember that they _want_ you to look as superior as possible, that they _want_ you to seem as unreachable and endlessly powerful as you do in their minds. They want it, and we give it to them grandly._'

Indeed. There was no one better than Slytherins when it came to being and acting superior.

"All hail the Queen!" It was a communal exclamation, as everyone but those of the highest rank knelt where they stood when she fully appeared. Blyss, Livia and Bella simply curtseyed, and Anton bowed over her hand, laying soft lips upon her rings. He led her past the rest of them, and once they were inside the brightly lit doors leading into the Delacour ballroom, Blyss, Bella and Livia gave the reporters what they wanted.

"Princess Blyss," the questions started again, "I hear that Marquis Warrington wishes an alliance with your house through marriage. His eldest son is quite handsome, don't you think?"

"I couldn't really tell you." Blyss replied with an arrogant smirk. "I don't bother with anything less than a future Duke or Duchess."

Scattered laughter. They loved it when the Royals played up to their images.

"Of course not, your highness!" One reporter called, a young wizard who smelled pure and gazed at her raptly. "Nothing less would be worthy of you!"

"Princess Livia! The Lord Nott—"

"Was quite entertaining company." Livia finished for her with a smile that suggested much more than her words and a lascivious wink.

More laughter. They were Slytherins, after all; it was expected.

"Lady Bellatrix," another shouted, "is your cousin truly going to wed the Reine Mère?" ((Queen Mother))

"Which one?" Bella asked with a sly smile that made more than a few people shiver for various reasons, and the reporter laughed nervously.

"The Lady Silana, of course, not your sister, milady."

"Why don't you ask him?" She questioned as another carriage replaced theirs, and Sirius stepped out as if summoned.

Several people looked startled, before the cameras went off like mad again as Silana stepped out. Her icy blond hair was piled upon her head in a nest of coiling braids, and a crown of diamond sparkled around it, somehow making her eyes seem an even lighter blue. No questions were asked of her as Sirius escorted her inside, nor were any asked of Narcissa, who took a hooded and gloved Severus's hand and looked almost doll-like in a dress of creamy white stitched through with pale green thread, a crown identical to Silana's resting on her head and her hair braided into one thick plait, coiling into a bun. Taking advantage of the distraction, the three of them vanished inside.

Or, more literally, they slunk into the shadows and then through a side door.

It worked nevertheless, and they were soon creeping up on her mother, who was talking to some Chinese wizards about warding. She was quite surprised when her daughter snatched her wineglass and Livia swiped the slim black cigarillo that she'd been idly smoking. Or at least she _acted_ as though she was. _One can never really tell with Mother_, she reminded herself, helping herself to the wine and letting the wizards fawn over her. One asked Livia to dance and she opened her mouth to refuse when a hush fell over the crowd as someone else important entered. But the enlivened current in the air and the unmistakable taste of the void and divinity soon caught her attention.

It was not just 'someone important'. Her fathers had arrived.

"All hail the Kings!"

Her mother instantly brightened, a mischievous, slightly sultry look forming in her charcoal eyes, and Blyss smiled wistfully, hoping that she would find someone that could make her so genuinely gleeful just by walking into a room, even after so many years. Never once had she seen her parents not look at one another like that when they thought no one was looking (or more likely when they temporarily stopped caring), and she was glad of it. It gave her hope for herself and hope for everyone else except for…well. Trying to push less than festive thoughts from her mind, she gave both her fathers a real, delighted smile and a pleased greeting kiss.

"Merry met!" She said, admiring them as one who could not be more rightly termed a 'daddies' girl' was wont to do.

They were both dressed as befit their station, but it was simple and subtle more than anything else. The thick Egyptian cotton couldn't truly be appreciated until felt, and then you knew that it had cost more than many of the nobles themselves could afford, so silky soft and inviting that you wished to wrap your hands in it and never let go for the simple sensual pleasure gained from the cloth alone. It was tailor-fitted to perfectly display every play of muscle and smooth line, hugging their upper bodies and fading into loose, billowing folds. The sleeves draped down over black-nailed hands and rings of power and station, sliding over fingers that could crush diamonds into dust.

"Merry met, precious one." They replied in unison, eyes sparkling at her inspection. Well, it wasn't _her_ fault that they'd set her expectations in males higher than most. It was why she was doubtful of ever having a binding with one in her future. She doubted that she could ever find a wizard that could so much as _begin_ to equal them in her regard.

"Are you still taking me to Knockturn Alley tomorrow?" She asked after her mother had quite _im_properly greeted them, and both nodded, drawing her attention to their crowns. The Frost Crown was a work of exactly that, just as the Sky Crown was shaped of a trapped storm cloud. Their elemental prizes made by the gods, such as the crowns and thrones, consisted of seven pieces apiece. The other Royals knew what only another three of those items were, the last two being a complete mystery. Blyss liked the crowns and the scepters the best.

"Of course. You've only been begging for weeks."

"I did not _beg_-" She started, when silence slowly fell again and a familiar prickle spread over her skin.

She turned in time to see Cyan, Atreus and Arion enter, but it was who came after them that had snagged her attention yet again. Her brothers had finally shown up, and she nearly spit out her stolen wine when she got a good look at them, and at Lithia, who hadn't attended so much as a garden party in months. They looked ethereal in a completely debauched way, emerald robes half-unbuttoned and sliding off their shoulders, revealing black fishnet shirts and taunting glimpses of tattooed flesh, not to mention the fresh, bloody bruises and bite marks that marred the normally-flawless skin of their pale throats, running down past their collars in hinted trails.

They were disheveled in an artful, unintentional way, a way that those who are physically perfect cannot seem to help in most situations, their silky hair tousled and their clothes slightly rumpled, as though donned in haste. Beguiling, glazed eyes traveled the room lazily, apparently not giving one shit what any of them thought, and their circlets sat crookedly upon hair that flowed in unbound, messy waves down their backs. Salacious smirks pulled at bruised, kiss-swollen lips and green, indigo and mercury eyes shone with a black, wicked light. Blyss knew immediately how it would go this time around as they slid like hungry predators into the more-than-willing crowd.

Tonight the Court would again taste of their games, of what their grief had created.

Which left Blyss with only one thought.

_Fuck_.

………………………………………………………………………………...

(looks around innocently) What? Surely you didn't think that it would be pretty, fluffy and full of daisies? (cackles)

Please review!


	4. Splashes of Violet

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Responses to my fabulous reviewers:** **tkmoore**, stars, stars should be hung in your honor. suns, suns should be spun in your name. (giggles) love ya! **sillysun**, hello, my dear! that was a positively delicious review (as usual) and now I'm off to read about snowballs and odd B/P pairings, lol. **Sunday-Morning**, darling, thou have returned to me! and with a review that had me in ecstatic fits! (faints of glee _again_) I worship thee! **BlueJeanJunkie**, (splutters) another smashingly long review! I adore you to pieces! and the horses are breeds JKR invented, akin to the Abraxans that pulled the Beauxbatons carriage, and no, this isn't pre-written, lol. I'm obsessed. :P **pulchritudeXx**, (drools over long review) ooh, you are sooo awesome! thankyouthankyouthankyou! **Pia O'Leary**, thank you so much! and to show my appreciation of yours and Dark Rose's reviews and enthusiasm, I have made the requested list. simply scroll down a bit, and ta da! **Tytianne**, I'm pagan, not to mention the fact that I read a _lot_. so…it just all sort of flows out of my head, lol. thanks for reviewing (as always)!! **gin rose raposo1**, wow, I don't think I've heard that one yet, lol. thanks!! **babykelyse**, thank you, and I hope you liked the fanart! **angelfire33**, indeed, I do, lol. but working now takes it's toll…(sighs) **Lithui**, ooh, and I love you for reviewing! (grins) hope your vacation was cool! **Flower4444**, thanks so much for the 'details' comment, it's good to know that they're appreciated. and I hope the list below helps with the confusion. :P **AnitaBlake/BuffyFan**, you like it, you like it, you like it! (does happy dance) love ya! **LEGOSGURL**, well, that definitely sounds like a fucked up week, dude. thanks for reviewing despite the drama! **Lady Hateya**, okay, positively beautiful review, and one way to get around this stupid site is to go up to the address bar when you're stuck on a chapter, change the number at the end to whatever should come next, and hit enter, it always works for me, so hopefully it will for you, too. **Raithen**, marble, of course, and lots of archways. :) and thank you!! **Wicked Not Evil**, thanks, and all will be explained in due time, I promise! **TarynMalfoy88**, thanks so much! hope you liked the fanart! **Kaifeuille**, sorry to confuse you. feel free to have me drawn and quartered. (cowers) **potatomaker**, the names have been gathered over time from numerous places, and I'm a fanatic. that should answer those questions, lol. **me**, thanks, glad you liked! and think whatever you wish of Lithia, I'm only here to write, lol. **im**** no muggle**, thanks, and I hope you'll continue reading! and just give me your email addy and I'll send the link! **Bethie**, thank you! that means a lot to me! and hey, you can imagine all you want to! **Dragon Rider**, a cookie? I'm posting, I'm posting! does it have chocolate chips? (drools) **Lorelei**, thanks so much for the review! and don't worry; they're hurt-able, lol. **sharon**, thank you so much! addictions are good. :)

**Important Author's Note: **Due to the request for such, and my own wish not to be _too_ confusing, the following shouldn't be too hard to figure out, and I hope it helps!

**Damien – **Son of the Sovereigns; twin of Tristen and blood brother of Blyss; eighteen years old and in his seventh year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Tristen – **Son of the Sovereigns; twin of Damien and blood brother of Blyss; eighteen years old and in his seventh year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Blyss – **Only daughter of the Sovereigns; blood sister to Damien and Tristen; sixteen years old and in her sixth year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Arion – **Son of Padma, Fred and George; twin of Atreus and blood brother of Viridia; seventeen and in his seventh year at Hogwarts; Ravenclaw.

**Atreus – **Son of Padma, Fred and George; twin of Arion and blood brother of Viridia; seventeen and in his seventh year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Lithia – **Daughter of Pansy and Anton; twin of Luthen, blood sister of Livia, Morven and Selene, half-sister of Cyan; seventeen years old and in her seventh year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Livia – **Daughter of Pansy and Anton; blood sister of Lithia, Luthen, Morven and Selene, half-sister of Cyan; sixteen years old and in her sixth year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

**Cyan – **Son of Anton and Melody; half-brother of Lithia, Luthen, Livia, Morven and Selene; seventeen years old and in his sixth year at Hogwarts; Slytherin.

………………………………………………………………………………...

The first thing that let Lithia know she was awake wasn't anything that would jar most from sleep. It wasn't a shout or a whisper or a sudden noise. It wasn't sunlight or chilled air or wandering princely fingers. Instantly alert, she moved not an inch as she oriented herself. She was on a bed; her bed. What felt like a million blankets had been piled on top of her, her wounds had been healed, and she was alone. In the bed, that is. Because if her senses but for sight weren't misleading her, Tristen was in the sitting room on the floor, his arms wrapped around his twin as he murmured something low in French, but even that was not what had pulled her from her nightmares.

No, it had been the soft sound of a single teardrop hitting skin, shortly followed by another.

Crawling forward silently, she pulled the velvet hangings around her bed back the barest bit, just enough to peek through. She could see them just past the archway as if they were right in front of her, thanks to the gifts of gods in her bloodlines, and her throat tightened as she soaked everything about them in. They were so alike, yet so unalike, that it was a pleasant pastime to simply sit and watch them, studying every movement and flow of grace as though it would be the last time it was ever beheld by any eyes, let alone her own. She had observed them so since infancy, as had Luth—her brother. How could they not? Such perfection deserved proper attention.

She had been right; Damien was sitting on the floor, his legs curled up underneath him, and Tristen kneeled next to him, embracing him and toying with his twin's hair as he whispered. Ebony and silver blended and shifted, their braids sifting together with a near-silent rustling like silk brushing silk, falling around lean, corded shoulders and backs to narrow hips that could saunter or stalk at a moment's notice. Muscles played under their skin with every motion that either made, muscles born of hours of weapons and combat practice, not to mention infallible genes. She could clearly recall all of the times that she had mapped those muscles out with her fingers, her tongue…

Her knives.

Remembrance hit, and she felt ill. She'd done it again. The wounds they'd yet to heal were proof enough of that. She'd hurt them again, in more ways than one, and she hated herself more than she already had for it. Why they still dealt with her shit was beyond her. She had once believed that she deserved their affection and regard, even their love, but that had been years ago. Before…well, just before. Now she simply waited for the day that they cut all ties with her. It was bound to happen, she knew with a sick certainty, because she simply was no longer fit for love. They, of all people, deserved better. They deserved someone unbroken and untainted.

And it wasn't as if they were the same, either. They, too, had changed; changed until sometimes, she looked at them and saw enough grief to drown the world. Then their eyes would land on her, and guilt would infuse her from head to toe even as some semblance of life crept back into indigo and mercury. Guilt had been new to her. She didn't like it. It had been her idea to leave the wards that fateful day. Her idea. And now, they would forever feel his absence, just as she would, and it was her own fault. His absence…gods, it ached. Always, always aching. Ripping and shredding and tearing at her very soul with every oh-so-joyful breath.

_Luthen_.

She missed him. It had all seemed so confusing and mind-fuckingly complicated at first, but in the end, she had realized that it was actually very simple. She missed him, and she was ruined, forever marred, by the loss of her beloved twin. It was quite depressing when thought of, but Lithia wasn't one to hide away from her problems. And if attacking the two people she had loved unfalteringly since before she could speak didn't count as a 'problem', then she didn't know what bloody well did. She cared about very little these days, but it was impossible not to care about them. Tristen's words rang in her mind, and she flinched at the blinding truth in them.

'_Kill_ _us and live alone in a bitter, fucked up existence full of self-loathing and other people's pity_.'

Indeed. Without them, all would be wasted and worthless. Not that their relationship was what it had been before. Nothing was. They had once been engaged, she and her twin to wed them upon their majorities; now they were…she didn't even really know. They still fucked, that was unquestionable. Unstoppable. Much too addicting to ever abandon. They still talked and watched after one another. They were still friends. They still loved one another, in their own twisted ways. But they were no longer what they had been. No bands forged of oaths and devotion encircled their ring fingers. No braids of promised binding wound through their hair.

They were lovers, they were confidants, they were allies, but they were no longer betrothed nor committed. The flesh games, which they had forsaken during their brief period of pre-wedded bliss, were no longer forgotten, and the beds they had closed to others no longer remained so. It had been a mutual decision, almost completely unspoken, and they couldn't explain it to anyone who asked. How do you explain something that you yourself don't understand? How do you explain the emptiness, the whirlpool of despair, the never-ending pain? How do you explain that the tragedy they all knew of was nothing compared to the truth?

You don't. You can't. You stay silent and grow cold or you die of mental misery.

She almost wished she would die. She had a lot at first. It was all she had been able to think about for weeks upon weeks, until Damien and Tristen had—well. They'd only just risen from the brinks of complete madness themselves at the time, and they had said, later, that she had been the first thing they had thought of when a bit of reality had returned to them. And they had given her back her own damnable reality through irresistible kisses and sinfully skillful caresses, and she had cursed them for it afterwards, when the afterglow had faded and solidity had come back with explicit precision. She had screamed, pleaded with them to kill her, but they wouldn't.

Yet both she and they, when it all became too much and one of them had yet another 'episode', as she so fondly referred to their little moments as, became all too ready to kill one another. Or anything else, really. Sometimes they triggered it in each other, and sometimes it was a solo affair with lunacy, but someone or something always ended up bleeding or dead when they snapped out of it. She couldn't count the times in the beginning that the Sovereigns had been called to Slytherin in the middle of the night, desperately needed to calm one or the other or all three. Word never left their House, of course, the world never knew, but their Housemates did, and she knew they felt helpless.

They actually felt as if _they_ had failed. Failed to do what, she had no idea.

"No." Damien's silken, flowing voice trailed over her flesh like feathers, breaking her out of her melancholic musings. "Do not try and feed me such sugary lies, Tristen. It will never again be _okay_."

Lithia felt another stab of guilt. She knew how much they cared about Luthen, and she'd thrown it in their faces again, saying they didn't. Though at the time, she'd believed every word she'd spoken. And would it even do any good to apologize at this point? There were so many walls between them now, barriers built of remorse and mourning, of shared secrets and shared deceit, though they remained ever truthful and loyal to each other; brutally so at times. They had managed to salvage _something_, at least, from the ashes of what they had been. Not much, perha—no, that wasn't true. They had saved more than expected in hindsight. Just not enough.

But those flickering embers were what still gave her the right to slip soundlessly from the absurdly soft sheets and to the thick rug, the robe someone had put on her swishing around her feet as she moved for the twins. She stopped halfway there, though, as she saw that which was responsible for her return to consciousness. A pair of small, purple-tinged stains on Damien's shoulder testified to Tristen's grief at his brother's state, and she could see why. Damien looked on the verge of murder or madness, though perhaps they went together, especially in his case. Tristen just looked…lifeless, those two, tiny splashes of violet the only thing that testified he even so much as knew what emotions _were_.

Strange how so small a thing was so much more vital than their numerous wounds.

"Damien—"

"I _know_, brother." Damien's dark head lifted, and he looked straight at Lithia. "I know."

"The ball…" Lithia started slowly, and silver hair slid through black as Tristen, too, laid dull eyes on her.

"Shall we escort you, lady?" Tristen questioned, and she remembered the first time he had asked her such a thing, when they had been much happier. Viciously shoving such memories away, she concentrated on the here-and-now as much as she was able to these days.

"Always." Moving forward at a hesitant pace, she wondered if today would be the day they finally rejected her presence.

They were, above all else, her liege lords, and if they didn't want her near, she would leave without question, regardless of the fact that these were her rooms and that she never would have done so in the past. Neither objected as she drew ever closer, and her robes draped around her legs as she knelt beside them, aware of their intense scrutiny as she held out a single, pale hand. If they refused it, then she would rise, curtsey as befit her station, and leave the country as soon as the ball ended at dawn. They would still escort her that night, but daybreak would find her in Caliga days ahead of schedule. All three knew this, and Lithia waited with perfect stillness.

Because it would happen one day, and she refused to be unprepared for heartbreak a second time.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Molly Weasley sat at a small, round table made entirely of strange stone that she was sure had cost a fortune, mostly just because of where she was. The Delacours were known for their taste in riches, and they lacked nothing, not with one of their own on the Thunder Throne. Silana's father had been the patriarch of the family, and now her brother held that title, while her son was King. Not that the Weasleys lacked anything, either, not anymore. No, it just wouldn't do for the family of the Queen to be poor. The Queen. Her daughter. _It still seems so unreal sometimes_, she thought as she let her eyes travel over the many elegant, noble purebloods laughing and dancing and drinking.

Their ages and appearances varied of course, some young and vibrant, others aging and sparkling, but her children…None save Percy, who was dead, and Ron, who was banished from any Royal establishment or capital, looked a day older than they had years and years ago. Bill spun a slim brunette, one that she vaguely placed as a Montague, across the dance floor; Charlie seemed awfully taken with Fleur this evening; Fred and George were immersed in dragging their wife away from a strange tree that grew up through the marble of the floor; and Ginny…she was with _them_, as always. Not that Molly _hated_ them, she just…

She'd wanted better for her only daughter than two dark wizards, Kings or no.

Looking down at her wrinkled hands, Molly pondered life. She had refused the gift of youth, and because of that, so had Arthur. She'd wanted to live a normal life, thinking surely that a witch's lifespan was long enough. She almost regretted that decision now, but her Prewett pride wouldn't let her. She told herself that it was enough that _they_ would be forever in their prime, as would their children. Her grandchildren. Twelve lovely creatures that she couldn't help but love, no matter that they were much different then they had been in her head. Three from the twins, three from Ginny, four from Bill and two from Charlie, and all loved by her very dearly.

Which made it hard to watch three suffer so.

She wasn't blind or stupid, and she knew that Damien, Tristen and Atreus had been severely hurt and scarred by something, something involving that…that _boy_, Luthen. She had never approved of the relationship between her grandsons and the McGregor twins, and her suspicions that it wouldn't work out well had been more than confirmed. She remembered all too well the night that the wards around every wizarding city and town had tingled, before the mournful sound of grieving gods had swamped everyone's senses as they had reacted to the death of a Shadow Royal. She, alone at hers and Arthur's estate, had known true fear then.

Immediately thinking of her family, she had never been so relieved when the laments had finally given a name to the one lost. Perhaps that sounded cruel, but it was true. Someone next to her gasped, and she turned slowly, her gray hair falling into her eyes. It was a witch that she distantly recognized, one of the second circle if she wasn't mistaken, and she was staring to her left, at a scene that shortly drew many eyes. Damien and Cyan were entangled against the far wall, and Cyan's face was a mask of sheer ecstasy as Damien's fangs sunk into his throat and drew pure blood. Damien held his hips tightly as they ground against his own, mercury eyes falling shut.

"Sweet Hera," the witch breathed, beginning to look slightly flushed.

Then, just as Cyan's lips parted to scream, shields snapped up around the pair as two Ezutîël and four of the Crown Princes' guards appeared from nowhere, hoods drawn low and hiding their faces. They stayed visible only long enough to make it very clear that the two Royals were well protected even in the throes of passion, before shields sprung up around them, as well, and nothing visible or audible was left of the scene but remembrance. None of the nobles looked like they would have a problem with _that_, however, their eyes hungry and wanting as they slowly turned back to their previous festivities. Molly, disquieted, looked towards her daughter.

Ginny stared at where her son was hidden as if she could see straight through the guards' shields, and for a moment, a bare, single moment, Molly saw such sorrow in her eyes that she felt as if she were choking on it. She loved her daughter, and knew, even though they hadn't been very close in years, that she was in pain. Pain caused by whatever haunted her sons so vividly. Standing, her body still young enough not to make the simple action hurt, Molly headed towards her daughter, her Queen. She walked as though every step meant something, and no one bothered her on her trek across the room. Ginny turned as she approached, her eyes once more blank and empty.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I…" Molly started, chancing a glance at Ginny's husbands.

They stood to either side of her like statues carved of marble, too surreal and unearthly in their flawlessness to be human, with eyes much too hard and cold to ever be inviting, at least not to Molly. They despised her; she knew that. They thought her meddlesome and full of spite, and perhaps she was. And when they had heard of her refusal to let Ginny wed them…they had grown harsh and uncaring where she was involved. Her own sons had told them of her words, of her damnable decision; her beautiful twins who had no longer respected her after that day. They had glared at her, disbelief and rage clouding their eyes, and then they had gone to their lords.

The Kings had not been pleased.

"I just wanted to say hello, dear." Molly finished after a moment, and Ginny looked at her strangely, but nodded her acceptance. "I haven't seen you much, lately." That was an understatement.

"Mother…"

"Yes, Ginny?"

"Perhaps we could discuss this later."

Of course. Later. "As you wish."

Molly turned to leave, more than a little stung, and regretting her past actions ever more. Her departure was halted by Pansy's sudden appearance, and Molly recoiled from the woman, who looked darkly stunning in a gown of brocaded fabric that clung to her and swished along the floor. She would have looked like many other high-class ladies had it not been for her exceptional beauty and the hilts of her infamous sais peeking from the tops of her boots, which both bore the crest of the Royal family, and that of the Parkinsons under it on one, the McGregors on the other. Molly had seen her wield those weapons numerous times, and knew of her skill with them.

"My Sovereigns, you must come." Pansy whispered in a near-inaudible voice, her eyes guarded and her fingers seeming to itch for a blade. "The unthinkable is happening."

Something in her voice had the instant attention of the High Royals, and they left at a fast pace, following her lead. Molly trailed after them, inflamed by curiosity, and it wasn't a very long walk to the right side of the ballroom floor, where the refreshment tables had been set up. A small crowd was gathering, one that instantly split for the Kings and Queen, though the people at the group's center didn't seem to notice. Molly recognized Daphne immediately, as well as Patrick Goyle, cousin of the Slytherin traitor. Though shamed, the family had recovered over the years, although they were never again trusted or given positions of power.

So the fact that this wizard seemed to be furious with Daphne, who was a sworn sister of the Queen, was not a very wise move on his part. Daphne looked indignant, as did several of the nobles gathered around, while the rest looked confused or angry or both. Patrick, a man in his late forties that had curly brown hair and the beady eyes of his family, stood with his chest puffed out, a sneer twisting his face into an unpleasant grimace. Daphne looked a second away from going for a blade, as did her companion, another Royal that Molly knew to be Sebastian Domhnall. He moved forward, only to have Daphne's small hand pull him back.

"_Excuse_ me?" Daphne demanded, her eyes narrowing as she actually looked at Patrick for what was probably the first time. "_What_ did you say?"

"Ignore him, Daphne." Sebastian very nearly begged, his fingers slowly creeping inside one deep pocket and grasping something that Molly was sure was deadly. "Come, let's go find Melody. _Please_."

Several people sucked in a breath. A plead falling from Royal lips? Surely not.

"No. I want to fully hear what he said." She refused, and Sebastian's eyes took on a hint of panic within the fury. Patrick laughed, not seeing or sensing the Sovereigns mere feet behind him, their energy dampened at their will. No one else dared enlighten him, and so his dice were cast upon fate's playing table, the eyes of demi-gods witnessing his chancy roll.

"If you command it, my lady, I will, of course, repeat myself." He said arrogantly, cruel, mocking laughter dancing in his eyes, and Sebastian forwent games and pretense, a small, thin, razor-sharp object that was shaped like a pointed snowflake appearing in his hand, flying at the wizard a second later. Daphne snatched it out of the air, her arm a blur, before letting the nasty little weapon fall to the floor, already forgotten.

"I command it."

"You were a Shadow." He hissed, and Ginny paled before starting forward, only to be stopped by Daphne holding up one hand, though her eyes stayed locked on Patrick.

"Impossible." Daphne countered, knowing full and well what he was implying.

"No, not impossible." He continued, and the first flicker of confused doubt appeared in Daphne's eyes as she heard the truth in his voice. He moved in closer, until his lips were right by her ear, and whispered into her hair while she held Sebastian back with a warning glare. "Not impossible at all, _pure_ one."

"I think I would recall something like that." Daphne spat, and Patrick laughed.

"Not if your memories had been covered up, erased from view—"

He never got to finish as someone grabbed him by the hair from behind and pulled him back with an enraged snarl. Melody looked wild, crazed, her eyes alight with promised pain, and Daphne stared at her in shocked silence as she slammed one fist into the man's ribs, shattering several and tearing a scream from him before shoving him to the floor and kicking him hard enough on the other side to get one to pierce a lung, making him cough up blood. Cyan appeared from nowhere a second later, Damien at his side with blood-smeared lips, a moment before Marcello was there and pulling Melody away. Daphne continued to stare, lips slightly parted.

"What the _hell_—" She started, only to be silenced by the look on Melody's face. Cyan moved forward, aqua eyes cautiously taking in the situation.

"What happened?" He asked simply, and when neither of his mothers responded, he looked to his father, who stood beside Pansy and the Sovereigns.

Anton shook his head, raven hair swaying slightly, and Cyan slowly backed away, slinking into the crowd and disappearing. Damien swept silver eyes over those around him, seemed to be deciding whether the drama was interesting enough to keep him near, and had his mind made up for him by a scream across the dance floor. He turned towards the sound, as did most everyone else, in time to see Tristen nimbly stepping around an errant curse shot at him by Severus, who—_oh my_, Molly thought with a jolt as she took in the image presented to her in bright colors. Severus was…well, now she understood why he'd stayed hooded all night.

Somewhere in the room, she heard Sirius's barking laughter.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Arion leaned against a pillar, just a bit drunk, idly listening to Blyss and Livia as his blue eyes ran over the nobles near them, half-wondering if he felt like taking any to his bed that night. Cyan had been drug away by a smirking Damien, Atreus had been pulled into a dark corner by Lithia, and the last time he'd seen Tristen, his cousin had been lounging on a silk-covered couch with two very eager witches, whose dark, dark skin made him shine ever more brilliantly. Both were beautifully exotic, all long limbs and supple muscle, and both had been bleeding from several marks that looked suspiciously like small puncture wounds, while already begging for more.

"All I know," Livia was saying, "is that with Mars' rebuilding of Rome, the Court has another Mother city, and one in a very valuable spot."

"Yes." Blyss agreed, her mismatched eyes foggy from the Nirvana that she'd sprinkled in her goblet. "It's good that Jupiter renounced His Throne out of shame. Mars is a better King than He ever was, and is utterly loyal to Cocidius."

"There are others just as loyal to the High King." Livia's voice suddenly sounded tentative, and Arion gave her his full attention.

"True." Blyss said slowly after a moment or two. Livia looked away, let her masks slide into place, and turned back to them.

"Hades is loyal. Lucifer is loyal. Isis and Osiris and all the other Dark Sovereigns are loyal, but none will return him." Livia didn't have to explain whom she meant, and they said nothing as she asked a tearful question of them. "_Why?_"

Sometimes, he forgot how much Livia, too, had loved her brother.

"They said they cannot." Arion replied carefully, and Livia, as if snapping out of a trance, shook her head and then nodded, a sigh escaping her.

"I know. But sometimes I wish…"

"P-Princess Livia?" A hesitant voice called from behind her, and she turned to observe the young nobleman that stood so nervously behind her, a Swedish wizard by the accent.

"Yes?" Livia asked, not a trace of anything but patience on her face as she waited for him to stutter out his request.

"W-Would you…I m-mean, I'd b-be overjoyed if y-you…if you w-would…"

"Yes, I'll dance with you." Livia said, surprising her friends almost more than she surprised the blond wizard. Then she was leading him away, and Blyss and Arion turned to mentally gape at each other.

"What just happened?" Arion questioned, and his cousin shrugged.

"I have no idea. That's very weird, though. Livia hates dancing."

"Arion!" A familiar voice drew their attention, and Atreus soon came into view, robes rumpled and hair askew, trailed by lustful gazes. Lithia was nowhere to be seen, but Atreus's swollen lips and sated smirk testified that it hadn't been too long since he, at least, had been in her presence.

"Atreus."

"Come with me for a bit." His twin requested, eyes shining with mischief, and Arion had only opened his mouth to reply when he found himself already being drug away, Blyss's laughter ringing in his ears.

Atreus pulled him across the room to one of the many deep alcoves, and they were soon enveloped in darkness. Hints of light shone through, and Arion could see quite well, though he knew that they were now invisible to most of the many eyes in the ballroom. There was a low stone bench across the back wall, comfortable cushions giving them a perfect place to sit and, apparently, drink. Because Atreus had procured a bottle from somewhere, and the firewhiskey gleamed like blood in the faded, flickering candlelight. Atreus grinned at him, a real grin, one that he rarely saw anymore, and Arion felt the questions beginning to rise between them again.

"Here." Atreus said as if he could still tell what his twin was thinking, holding out the bottle. Arion wondered, then, if he should take it, but for once, his brother's eyes weren't so heavily guarded as usual, and Arion let his fingers snatch it away. The liquid was hot, of course, burning like its namesake down his throat, and he handed it back to his twin when half was gone and already twisting his vision worse than all the rest of the liquor that he'd already consumed.

"Where's Lithia?" He thought to ask after a moment of fuzzy reorientation, and Atreus's lips curved in a pleased smirk.

"Reeling from a mind-blowing orgasm provided by yours-truly?" Atreus suggested, only half-jesting. "How should I know? Probably off breaking hearts and playing politics like the black widow bitch that she's become."

"_Atreus_." Arion hissed, smothering a snicker. "She might hear you."

"She's knows it's true." Atreus said, draining his half of the alcohol and holding up another bottle as if it had materialized out of thin air.

Only then did Arion notice just how Nirvana-glazed his twin's eyes were, but the insanity of drinking more as fucked up as he was already actually appealed to him at the moment. Passing the bottle slowly between themselves, Arion tried to imagine that this was the same as it had been before. That he couldn't, even now, feel the distance between himself and his other half growing ever wider with each breath taken that was not put to use in fixing what lay hidden between them. Arion was sure that whatever it was, he could accept it if his brother would only _tell_ him. But Atreus didn't believe that; that or he didn't trust him anymore.

The latter would probably hurt worse.

"Arion?"

He slipped out of his less-than-cheerful thoughts. "What?"

"Did you hear a word at all of what I just said?"

Shit. "No, what was it?"

"Never mind."

Silence. And there was that damned distance again.

"Atreus…" It was time to _talk_; time to know what had happ—

"I think Livia is in love with Blyss."

What the fuck?

"Come again?" Arion spluttered, for once completely shocked. Where had _that_ come from?

"I think Livia is in love with Blyss." Atreus repeated matter-of-factly, picking at the hem of his sleeve in a distracted manner. "She watches her all the time."

"Many watch Blyss." Arion reasoned. "They cannot help themselves."

"No." Arion turned intent blue eyes on him, and their connection wavered, grew briefly strong once more, and then faltered, splintering back into the shards it had been left in by the simple fact that because of the secrets and lies, they were no longer almost one person. Arion's impatience and desire to change that strengthened day by day even as what he fought for waned ever farther. "This is different, this is more."

"How are you so sure, then? What even makes you _think_ so?" Arion questioned, because the two Princesses had never seemed more than friends to him. They had not even played the flesh games together, which most Slytherins would have done long before, regardless of any sort of _feelings_. And if Livia loved her, then why in Creation had she not even petitioned for a night in her bed? He highly doubted that Blyss would deny her that much, at least. _Females_, he thought rather hazily, _are very, very strange creatures_.

Atreus pulled him closer, and pointed. "Watch her watch Blyss. Then tell me that isn't proof enough."

Arion did as requested, and he gazed out of their hiding spot to the area Atreus was pointing at until he found Livia, and his eyes stopped their searching scan. She was no longer dancing but in an alcove much like theirs, her dark hair lost in the darker shadows, though he could easily see her when he tried. She was staring at something, or someone, as though she beheld the heavens themselves, her brandy eyes shining with wonder and devotion and something very nearly like awe as she tried to hide a longing smile with her wineglass. A little stunned already, he followed her gaze to straight to none other than Blyss, and Atreus made an '_I_ _told you so_' noise when his eyes widened.

It all took a moment to really sink in.

"Holy fucking shit." Arion blurted, feeling more than a bit dizzy. "_Livia loves Blyss!_"

"Umm-hmm."

"You really don't have to be so smug about this, you know."

His only reply was an upturned nose and a haughty sniff before Severus screamed.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Blyss watched Atreus drag Arion away with unhidden amusement, because she had seen the same thing hundreds of times. Not so much recently, but she was determined to forget as much of the bad stuff tonight as she could. Trying to shake off memories that would only bring grief, she sat her goblet down and took to the dance floor, not worrying over a partner. Who needed one when the drums had such an age-old, primal beat and the haunting chords were so addicting in their creeping strands? She could twirl and sway and writhe just as well on her own, and she almost preferred it that way. It was…less complicated.

She loved to dance, loved it because when doing it, she could let loose and be completely free for a few, glorious minutes. Everything outside her mind faded, and the music let her thoughts loose to roam as she rarely did any other time. As she forgot everything else, it didn't matter that the last thing her eyes saw before they drifted closed was Lithia seducing some Duke that more than likely wouldn't leave her _attentions_ the same, and therefore triggering memories of her as Blyss relaxed and fell into a state of utter calm and clear sight. As she moved to the slightly eerie music, she remembered Lithia as she had been, when their world could not have been more perfect.

_"Blyss, Livia!" A full, rich voice halted the two girls mid-conversation, but neither minded, because it was Lithia who had done the interrupting. She came running up to them, the cool dignity of her station forgotten as she raced through the tall summer grass that spread across the fields outside of Tenebre Stella where the other girls had been collecting nightshade from one of the far greenhouses. _

_"Lithia, what is it?" Her sister had asked as she'd drawn nearer, and they'd seen her eyes then, a sight that would be forever burned into Blyss's brain. No emerald could dream of being so bewitchingly green, so celestially full of dark starlight and darker power, which was accentuated by the open joy that seemed to leap out at them with ensnaring claws. Blyss was smiling before she even knew why._

_"Bound!" Lithia crowed ecstatically, spinning in delighted circles around them, her arms outstretched towards the gleaming sky. "Bound, bound, bound!"_

_"What?" Livia questioned, unable to resist laughing along with her sister, whose exuberance was contagious. _

_"By the grace of the gods, Luthen and I are to be bound to them!" Lithia replied elatedly, and they noticed the new ring on her hand for the first time as she held it out before her reverently as though it were all she wished to look upon for the rest of eternity. Blyss felt her own excitement growing, because if Lithia meant what she thought she did, then…_

"Bound_, Lithia?" Livia shrieked, her eyes lighting up with glee. "Truly!?" _

_"Truly!" Lithia agreed, taking Livia's hands and swinging her around in her mad, rejoicing dance. "They love us, now and always, they swore it! _Swore_ it, sister! And you know we love them, forever and forevermore, their mere presence an endless luxury and treasure, but never have I known such pure exaltation as I do now!" _

_"Then you, sweet sister, are divinely blessed!"_

Blyss breathed deeply, centering herself as she let her thoughts flow, not wanting to consciously guide them even though they were heading into the 'don't-want-to-go-there-right-now' shit that she'd been trying to escape from. Because although Lithia had been blindingly happy, it hadn't lasted nearly as long as one would hope.

_"Where are they?" Livia asked anxiously, shredding the black lace of the drapes between worried fingers. Her cousin, Lycelle's daughter Vivien, sat beside her while Blyss paced back and forth, just as concerned as the other two. Six of their family had left more than three days before, and none had yet returned. To make matters worse, Blyss's parents, along with Pansy and Anton, were in the Underworld and therefore unreachable until they returned. Padma and her husbands ruled in their absence, and search parties had already been sent out, but they had yet to find so much as a trace. It did not bode well. _

_"I do not know." Blyss said slowly, hating the pain she caused her friend with those words. But with her inside the wards and her brothers outside of them, she couldn't sense them and Padma refused to let her leave. Her stomach coiling in knots and her heart pounding with a feeling of pure dread, she tried not to scream, had _been_ trying not to scream. _

_"Something has happened." Livia said with certainty, red-rimmed honey eyes shining with an emotion that Blyss had previously been unaccustomed to. Fear. "Something has gone wrong."_

_"Yes."_

_"I feel…odd. I've felt odd since dawn."_

_"'Odd', how?" Blyss questioned, her voice suddenly sharp and her eyes doubly so. _

_"As though I—" She halted with a shriek of sheer agony, falling to the floor, but Blyss couldn't help her, because she had already fallen to her own knees on the carpet, clutching her skull and screaming. _

_Vivien stared, before jumping up and raising the alarm, not that Blyss was very aware of her actions. Anguish and desperation slammed through her with the force of an explosion, her brothers' uncontrollable, inconsolable despondency and despair like a knife in the heart and head. She felt sick as images flashed through her mind with rapid, blurred succession until all she could see was dark, lavender blood and meaty chunks of flesh, and all she could hear was piercing, high-pitched laughter that made her wish to flay her own skin off just to be rid of its lingering touch. It was unbearable, and all she wanted, during those long moments inside her brothers' minds, was to die. _

_"Your highness!" One of her guards was at her side, pouring power into her to help her fight off whatever ailed her, but she shoved them back with more strength than she usually showed and bolted, stumbling into walls quite hard and ungracefully as the pain made her vision run with red and black streamers. _

_Her limbs barely seemed able to function, every step a lesson in complete torture, and she fell down the first flight of stairs more than she walked. Then her guards were there again, lifting her and ignoring her protests as it grew even worse and felt as though her brain was convulsing, sending her whole body into racking spasms as amethyst-colored_ _blood began drizzling from her nose and ears and mouth, giving her guards quite a fright. Never had her bond with her brothers, which, admittedly, was stronger than most, been so very open and brutal. Never had it been so violently distressing. Never had she had reason to fear that it could kill her. Never—_

_Her world went dim, before it disappeared altogether. _

Blyss didn't want to remember anymore. It was no longer soothing. It was no longer clear. She wanted nothing more than to quit dancing, to end the silent spell that she had woven, but her body seemed to move of its own accord, and her memories moved right along with it.

_"Tristen, please!" _

_Blyss stumbled back into a low fence, narrowly avoiding the ball of lightning sent at her head. With no time to do more than try to break her fall, she rolled as she hit the ground, and a knife embedded in the dirt up to the hilt where her head had just been. With a shaking breath and a stifled sob, she leapt back to her feet and did the only thing she could. She ran. Because it was not just anyone attacking her, it was her cherished brother, and she wouldn't be able to kill him even if she could. But _he_ seemed to have every intention of killing _her_. So she ran, ran with all the speed she could muster, ran until she was deep in the woods of western Russia. _

_But it wasn't far enough, wasn't quick enough._

_"Fuck!" She exclaimed as she was tackled onto the mossy grass, a second before Tristen's fingers were wrapping in her hair and yanking her up viciously, hard enough to make her scalp bleed._

_Claws raked across her face as she struggled to escape, ripping her ear nearly in half, and she wondered frantically how much more pressure her hair could take before the entire handful tore free. Lashing out and running out of options, she punched him as hard as she could in the jaw, but was dismayed when delirious indigo eyes only became more maniacal as he spat out several teeth and returned the favor. Her head snapped around, and she very nearly lost consciousness, which would have been fatal. But she'd never before felt the full effect of her brother's strength, and whether or not her own nearly matched it was redundant at the moment. _

_He was much too incoherent to feel anything besides his own inner torment. _

_Spitting out a bloody mouthful of her own teeth, her jaw shattered, she knew that such a blow would have killed anyone but a Royal. His fingers wound around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, and though she could go quite long without air, she couldn't stay conscious with him cutting off her blood flow like he was. Their father had nearly been beaten by such when fighting a demon's werewolves, but she appeared fated to fall to the same, only at her brother's hands. She never should have mentioned Luthen while he was like this. She never should have thought that she could handle him on her own, not while he was in the state that he currently was. _

_And then, in a blurred move that freed her, Lithia appeared from nowhere, crashing into Tristen and knocking him off of her as they both went flying. Blyss fell back onto the leaves underneath her, silently gasping and clenching her fists as her throat began painfully healing. He'd crushed more than she wished to think about, and she turned her head slowly, watching their fierce fight with glazed eyes in an effort to distract herself. Lithia was on top of Tristen, trying to hold him down as best she could, but Blyss knew all too well that it was futile. Lithia was Royal, but she was not a High Royal. Tristen was. _

_"Fucking bitch." He snarled, throwing her off and into a nearby tree. Lithia hit it with a loud cracking noise, but the determined expression on a face that could make even Venus stop and stare never wavered as she slid to the ground and got swiftly back to her feet, drawing her sword. _

_"I will not let you kill her, Tristen." Lithia said evenly, icy green eyes alert and oh-so-cautious as he rose to his feet in a play of sleek muscles like the predator he was, a sword of his own materializing in his hand. _

_"Go to hell."_

_"I'm already there, love."_

_Then they met halfway with a deafening crash of metal, and their deadly dance begun. They merely toyed with one another at first, slashing here and stabbing there, but it became all too serious when Lithia drew first blood and Tristen's lips curled in a dangerous smirk. Then _she_ was bleeding, cut in a move that even Blyss could barely follow, and the game turned all-too earnest. Lithia was suddenly on constant defense, every parry truly meaning her life or death, and her eyes met Blyss's for the smallest moment in time, full of such an utter loss of…of _everything _that Blyss wished to weep, before going instantly back to Tristen. _

_That small distraction, however, had been more than enough. _

_Suddenly swordless and rapidly being cornered between two massive trees, Lithia again looked at Blyss, malachite eyes imploring her to go, to flee back to the Arcdine estate where they were staying, but Blyss was nearly healed, well enough to fight, anyway. She was no longer by herself, and she had learned through long experience that when dealing with one of them when they got like this, it was extremely perilous to do so alone. But Lithia was there now, and they could—a sickening sound of tearing flesh ripped through her consciousness, and Blyss watched Lithia sink to her knees as if in slow motion, Tristen's sword impaling her lower abdomen. _

_"Isis, enduring one, hear me." She began whispering as she slowly backed away, Tristen distracted by the stream of wine-colored blood pouring from Lithia's wound. "Do not let her die this day. Please. Do not let her die this day."_

_Tristen slowly turned to look at her, and the madness in his eyes had been replaced with something far worse, in her opinion. Because _nothing_ shone forth from them, not even so much as a flicker of recognition, and it broke her fucking heart for what felt like the millionth time. They didn't deserve such suffering, and she wished, yet again, that she had gone with them and been there that cursed day. And as his sword lifted, his beautiful, familiar face a mask of malicious hatred, both at himself and everyone else, she knew, for an absolute fact, that he was going to kill her. And that he'd never forgive himself when he came to. _

_But the blow never landed, and in retrospect, she really should have known that Damien wouldn't be too far away, and that he couldn't fail to sense such a battle. She had never been so relieved to see anyone in her life. Because his eyes were filled with pain, yes, and even a hint of their own madness, but they were clear and bright with something vitally _him_ as his hand caught Tristen's around the hilt and his other arm wrapped around his twin's waist. Tristen growled, Damien ignored him, and Blyss tried not to meet Damien's mercury eyes as they traveled over the still-dark bruises around her throat, the fading scars along her cheek and ear, and her blood-matted hair. _

_"This was never meant to spread to you." Her ebony-haired brother intoned dully as he matched strength for strength with Tristen and held him in an iron grip, the faintest, buried traces of the regret and horror eating him away inside reflected at her in eyes so like their father's, eyes that released two single splashes of violet sorrow. "Perhaps you'll forgive us one day."_

_He simply didn't understand that there was nothing to forgive. _

Her pace finally slowed and then stopped, and Blyss nearly sobbed in relief. Phantom aches assaulted her, but she barely noticed them or the crowd around her that had stopped to watch her move like liquid rhythm across the floor.

Because her grandfather's bellow captured all her attention.

………………………………………………………………………………...

If you do not review, I shall die. So there. (sticks out tongue)

And yes, I'm perfectly aware the end may have been confusing. But, alas, I am apparently a confusing person, so feel free to have me stoned in a public square somewhere. Or, in today's world, your LiveJournal.

Venus — Roman Goddess of Love, Lust and Beauty


	5. Morbid Melancholy

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Responses to my fabulous reviewers: ****tkmoore**, (begins singing off-key) there once was a goddess named keeeeeeeeeeeelly, and she was really, really smeeeeeeeeeelly, but she smelt like piiiiiiiiie, so that's alriiiiiiiiiight, and we all—(glares) shut up, you. just fuck off. I've had no sleep. (pouts) **Sunday-Morning**, (backs away from tkmoore's evil scowl and corners you, singing atrociously) there once was a goddess named saaaaaar-ah, and she was really faaaaaaair-ah, until one tragic daaaaaay, when a bludger flew her waaaaaay, and we—(sulks) no one likes my songs! damn it! must try to sleep now…do forgive me. :P **sillysun**, bump you down? have you gone bloody _mad_? I totally understand how it is when your mind decides to take a holiday and not inform you beforehand, lol. **pulchritudeXx**, your stunning review capabilities never end, do they? (drools) not that I want them to! I worship them! and you even mini-ranted for me! (sighs dreamily) it must be love, I say! (snickers) but really, thank you so much. you have no idea how much your opinions and ideas matter to me. :) **BlueJeanJunkie**, (swoons and builds altar at your feet) could you _be_ any more awesome? I think not, my friend, I think not. (grins contentedly) **Cloaked**, you're baaaaaaack, you're baaaaaaak! (does happy dance) I missed you! and now you're back and I'm positively _thrilled_! yes, yes, yes! (cackles insanely and runs to read beloved review again)** Lady Hateya,**(sniffles) you…you reviewed with painful spots…(chokes up) oh, you darling, darling witch…(sobs) love you!** SkotosEnigma**, don't worry about the third chapter, I'm simply pleased you read it. and your questions will all be answered, I promise…eventually. (smirks) **me**, I still can't see the end of your email address in the review. sorry! just put spaces, that's what I do…damn this site! **AnitaBlake/BuffyFan**, cool, I'm totally glad the list helped, and thank you, as always! **gin rose raposo1**, I'll see what I can do, and thanks for saying that it wasn't confusing:) **Pia O'Leary**, whoo-hoo! another I haven't utterly confused! yay! and you're the best, thanks for still reviewing! **Wicked Not Evil**, (gapes) umm, suuuuure it makes sense…yeah…(slowly starts backing away) have you taken your pills today? LOL **legosgurl**, omg, I can't believe you got fired! that sucks! hope this cheers you up a bit…(yeah right, lol.) **babykelyse**, thank you, and I'm glad you enjoyed the art! **Flower4444**, Silana is Blaise's mother, lol. and I'm glad you liked the chappie! **Lithui**, (does victory dance) you almost screamed, you almost screamed! go me:P **morrigan79**, thanks so much! and you'll find out soon enough, lol. **angelfire33**, will do the summary thing as soon as I have time. real life sucks. :( **Raithen**, ahhh, how I anticipate your plans! and ebony, don't forget the ebony! **Kaifeuille**, thanks! glad you're not too confused anymore, and am even more glad that you liked it! **candace1989**, thank you! **Tytianne**, well, you'll just have to wait and see, lol! I know, I know, I'm utterly evil…(grins madly) **sharon**, she hasn't been so far, but Morven was mentioned in passing in the second chapter. He's Anton and Pansy's eldest son. Hope that helped, and thanks! **Twilight Antediluvian**, they don't hate her, lol. they just lost all respect for her. and thankyouthankyouthankyou for the awesome review! **potatomaker**, (tries not to blush) very sorry this took so long…(fidgets in a very embarrassed way) umm…forgive me? _please_? **coffeechick87**, sorry (again) about being confusing, but I'm glad you liked the rest:P** Sonya Wolfsbane**, sorry the first two disappointed you, and I hope the rest don't! and thanks so much for reviewing! **Bethie**, very, very sorry this missed the weekend, so this chapter's dedicated to you, as mentioned below! thanks a million for reading and reviewing! **im**** no muggle**, thank you, as usual! **Guppie-Mother-mine**, omg, loved the review! THANKS! (sighs happily) you think it's twisted…(grins)

**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to **Bethie**. Happy Birthday!

……………………………………………………..

Tristen smirked as he heard Zalika, a noble with eyes like thick syrup, purr delightedly in his ear. Her best friend, Adande, crept sneaking fingers down his thigh while she ground herself against his leg like a bitch in heat. Apparently, high breeding didn't always allow you to keep all of your cool in public. Funny, because he'd never had a problem with such. Even now, with Zalika's mouth wrapped around his length, hidden by strong sight shields (and only that because his parents were in attendance tonight), his face was its usual detached, arrogant mask. But then again, he had learned from the very best, though Blyss swore that it hadn't been nearly so cold…before.

And that had been the wrong thought to have.

Suddenly furious, he shoved Adande from him none too gently, ignoring her disappointed gasp. Zalika instantly felt the change in her Prince and long-time friend, and she withdrew immediately, licking her lips and looking somewhat sulky before she met his eyes. Paling, she scampered off the large couch and knelt beside Adande, who looked as though she were going to pass out, whether from pleasure or fear, it didn't matter. Thoughts of Luthen swirled through his head and he growled, willing himself to fight off the tempting madness. He couldn't lose control, not among the first three circles of the Court. He had to find Damien.

A stifled sob helped him concentrate, and he focused on Adande. She was biting her lip nearly bloody in an effort not to make more than soft whimpers, her eyes glued to him with something like awe and something like terror. He didn't need a mirror to understand what scared her so. In his rage, she saw his fathers reflected on his face, in his eyes. He considered, for a moment, assuaging her desperate anxiety and trying to explain, but that idea withered as quickly as it had blossomed. _Let them tremble_, he thought suddenly, vehemently, _let them know half of the heartache that we do, half of the fear! Fear…what a very plebian emotion._

"Forgive us, your highness, we never meant to displease you." Zalika intoned in the most humble voice he had ever heard from her, and he became a bit worried when it made him want to rip her throat out. Yes, he definitely had to find Damien.

"Please, please forgive us, your greatness!" The other very nearly shrieked, and he rolled his eyes as he adjusted his robes with a wave of one elegant hand. Had she really just called him 'your greatness'? Bloody hell. "My parents would kill me if I've upset you in any way or…or not correctly _satisfied_ you, your greatness!"

"Truly?" He asked more than a bit cruelly, his patience wearing thin at the increased pounding in his skull and the fact that he detested whores. That he had previously been aware of her concubine-like status didn't matter, because even whores didn't need to _act_ like whores, and most didn't. The Court was infamous for its silkily seductive and well-trained courtesans, but trust Zalika to befriend the one fucking weirdo in the group. Her blood, though, would be anything but weird if he spilt it like a scarlet waterfall upon the marb—

He really, really needed to find Damien.

"Yes, your greatness, truly!" She wept, eyes puffy and red, bright with panic, as swollen tears ran down her cheeks.

"Do you think they'd let me watch?" He hissed, enjoying her sudden, shocked silence.

Then, without another word, he slid through his shields and promptly set towards the east wall, where he could sense his twin ravishing their best friend. Sadly enough, he simply didn't have time for Damien's games. Not now, not while Luthen's enthralling emerald eyes were so vivid in his mind, vivid with pain and hate and betrayal. His stomach knotted up and he had to stop, leaning against the nearest pillar and pushing back another wave of disorientation. Taking several deep breaths and snarling at any that approached him to ask if he were all right, he straightened up and found himself before one of the many antique mirrors lining the walls.

Was that truly him?

He could not remember the last time he'd really seen himself, and he found, to his disconcertment, that he barely even recognized the face staring back at him. Moving closer as if in a trance, he reached out with steady fingers and a not-so-steady soul. The mercury hair, he remembered that. So like his father's, how could he not? And the pale skin, though lighter than he recalled, was inherent. But the eyes…he had never seen those eyes in his face before. Not to say that he hadn't seen them at _all_, though, because he had. Three, maybe four times in his life, he had caught his father in a rare moment where he was simply _Blaise_, not a father or a King.

And to tell the absolute truth, those eyes had always scared him worse than the father's or the King's ever could. There was something in them when they were like that, something that Tristen was sure was important but that his fathers never spoke of. Something that had killed some vital part of both of them forever. And now those eyes blinked at him from his _own_ face, those eerie, haunted indigo eyes, and he laughed, a low, cold sound full of coming storms that raised goosebumps along the flesh of those nearest. Was nothing of him to be left the least bit human, then? _Nothing_? He had barely been so anyway, but now…oh, sod it. Who wanted to be fucking human anyway?

"Bespelled by yourself as usual, I see."

A sneering voice sounded from his left, and he turned to face his grandfather. Why Narcissa, one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in a sea of pure, pretty faces, had married Severus Snape, he would never know. He wasn't exactly…handsome. His nose was too long, too crooked, his hair much too greasy, and he was the most sour person Tristen had ever known. All in all, very un-Narcissa-like. She had been known for her taste in pretty young men at one time, but Severus had, _somehow_, gotten under her skin and stayed there. Not that he didn't love his grandfather; he did. He just didn't _like_ him very much.

"Leave me alone, grand-père. I am not up to verbally sparing with you at the moment." He murmured, dropping his gaze idly to the cream and silver floor in order to avoid letting on just how close he was to the point of snapping completely.

"Ah," his grandfather mocked, hood still drawn low over his face and held in place by a sticking spell, "but _I_ am."

"Do not do this now." Tristen stressed, clamping onto the fading vestiges of his control as much as possible.

"For years, I did nothing as you little shits tried out your bloody 'ideas' on me. But _this_," he gestured somewhat wildly at himself, "this is going _too far_, Tristen Malfoy."

"Grand-père—"

"I, like everyone else, was thrilled when you showed some sign of improvement. But _Gryffindor_ colors? Have you gone bloody _mad_?"

"I—"

"No!" Severus gestured wildly again, spluttered, and Tristen began smirking in a very malicious way as he spotted just the right person that would allow his escape. Because he had to get away before he did something truly regrettable, and he had to do it _now_.

"But—"

"Damn it, Tristen, can't you just _listen_ for once? I won't look this over, oh no, not this time. You just wait, you haughty—ARRRRRRRRRRRGGGHHHHHHH!"

Oops. Grandpappy's robes seem to have been burnt away. Positively tragic, that.

"Severus?" A familiar, incredulous voice questioned, making Severus very nearly whimper before he threw out one hand and shot a curse at his grandson. Tristen stepped aside quickly, instinct and training taking over, before reaching out to his twin along their soul-bond.

'_Damien!_'

That one mental summons was all that was needed for his brother to rush to his side while he slipped away as a mortified Severus turned to face a severely amused McGonagall, Sirius cackling madly from somewhere in the crowd, telltale 'clicks' just audible over the other nobles' stunned gasps. Then Damien latched onto his arm, dragging him farther away and up the far right winding staircase until they were on the third level and at a set of open double doors. A large balcony welcomed them with its open view of the trillions of stars as visible and bright as they had been his entire life, though he had heard tales, of course, of the vile period in which the earth and sky had been all but dead.

It still was wherever the muggles lived, for they destroyed it unthinkingly.

Large, leafy plants created an air of secrecy and total seclusion, and they embraced the waiting shadows in the distant corner after locking the doors behind them. Damien pulled him down onto the cushions that he'd transfigured his gloves into and poured power into him as he did so, long having been used to doing such when there was still time for it to work. Slowly, like his mother's singing, the power soothed him, smoothed back the rough, jagged edges to fray another day. The last of his violent tension melted away for the moment, his twin's arms tight and comforting around him, and a large part of him once again just felt…empty.

_Luthen_.

"I wish to die." Tristen barely even whispered, but his brother's sharp ears caught every word. "I wish to die so often now that I can barely remember a moment when I didn't. We failed, frère jumeau, failed so horribly…" ((twin brother))

"You know what keeps us here." Damien responded after several minutes of live, crackling silence.

"Yes." Tristen agreed blankly. Of course he knew. "Lithia."

………………………………………………………………………………...

Cyan was one of the very few that actually saw the twins' escape up the stairs after Severus had been…ousted. He said nothing, however, knowing full and well after one glance that Tristen was moments from losing it. With luck, Damien had been in time and they would be spared another…whatever you wanted to call such bleak, destructive attacks of lunacy. And if not…then it was best that Damien was with him. They were equally matched, and he would stop Tristen from getting away from him, at the least. So the Court was safe, though that was the least of Cyan's concerns. He was more worried about, well, _everything_.

"Prince Cyan." An unmistakable, spectral voice intoned from behind him, and he turned to see Padma, resplendent in a gown of gray, gauzy fabric, her hair so like her sons' falling past her waist like a veil, the Crown of Earth blossoming on her brow.

"My lady."

"Come with me." She said simply, and he followed her to one of the many tables scattered around the edges of the dance floor, watching amusedly at the very nearly subconscious parting of the crowd as they passed. She sat gracefully in one of the cushioned, high-backed chairs, and he sat next to her at her bidding. He wasn't sure what she wanted with him, but she was family as far as blood oaths and divine bonds went, so he waited patiently for her to speak again, and she actually started quite quickly this time. "Cyan, you know my sons almost better than anyone."

"I suppose."

"You are also the best friend of the Crown Princes, and brother to Lithia. You, if anyone, must know exactly what ails them so."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, dear Prince, you do." She intoned calmly, turning those dark, speckled eyes on him as if she could gaze right through him and into the farthest reaches of his mind. And she _could_, if she chose, but she never would, because that would be a grievous violation of privacy that neither his mothers nor his father would ever forgive her for. "You most certainly _do_ know more than you let on."

"My lady—"

"'My lady'?" She mocked in her quiet, gentle way. "Since when does the family use such titles amongst ourselves?"

"I…" Damn her! "We do not."

"Yet the five of you do more and more often." She observed, gesturing to a passing servant carrying a tray full of wine glasses. The girl handed them each one, blushing when Cyan's fingers brushed hers, before practically fleeing, her cheeks a vibrant crimson. "Will you ever marry, Cyan?"

"The likes of _her_?" He questioned with an instinctive sneer, and Padma laughed.

"Oh no, I know better than that. You are too much like your father to ever do such a thing. I just meant in general."

"I doubt it." He finally replied, the grip on his glass nearly shattering it. "I have seen what _love_ can do to someone. I _know_ what it can do. So no, I do not wish to marry." He snapped.

"There is no reason to get angry, sweet Prince." Padma took it all in stride as usual. "I meant no offense. But may I ask why you fear love so much?"

"_Fear?_" He internally seethed. "I do not _fear_ it, I _loathe_ it."

"Ah." Did she _have_ to look so bloody sympathetic? "But yet you love your friends, I know you do. And your parents. Do you loathe that, as well?"

And suddenly, he realized what she was trying to do, and laughed.

"_Never_," he hissed, his laughter gone and replaced by a cold fury that had eclipsed the hot rage from moments before, "will a Ravenclaw, no matter how sly, beat a Slytherin at mind games. I ask that you do not try again, _my lady_."

Then, with a disgusted glare and a sadistically satisfied smirk when he saw her brief second of true surprise, he rose in a flowing move that spoke of restrained power and infinite grace, and that would remind her that though she was an Elemental, and therefore just a tad bit above everyone but the High Royals in the social hierarchy, he was both McGregor and Arcdine, two of the oldest bloodlines in the world, older than her own, and she would do well to remember that the next time she sought to trick him into answering her questions. Lucky for him, he was rational even while infuriated in most cases, and his tongue had not been loosened by distraction as planned. At least she hadn't tried to use her magic on him; _that_ could have gotten ugly.

Heading for the gardens, which only a handful knew how to get to, he ignored his surroundings until he came upon an alcove near the dance floor like many others. Except _this_ one had the scent of Arion and Atreus about it, and the hurt, confusion and righteous anger leaking into the air from within signified that something wasn't right. He considered the situation for a bare moment before taking a lover's right and stalking inside. Atreus stood motionless, his face a blank mask and his eyes distant as they stared at the wall. Arion stood before him, a knife in hand, his blue eyes wild as he spoke in such a wrenching, hopeless voice that Cyan felt the usual guilt settle inside him.

"You would let this rip us apart?" Soft voice, viscous eyes. "You would let this ruin us? Spilt our soul in half? You would _allow_ this, when a single confession would fix it all?"

"It will not fix it." Atreus responded just as softly, lifeless eyes so hollow that Cyan wanted to hurt something, anything. "We are broken, brother, but you are still whole. I wish to keep it that way."

"_You are not broken! _You are wounded, yes, scarred, yes, but broken? Never, Atreus, not while I live."

"Even you, dear one, would not look kindly on me for this. Leave it be."

"I will not! Not anymore! You die more day by day, and I will no longer sit by and do nothing! Tell me, Atreus, just _tell me_."

"I…I cannot."

"You _said_ that you would! You _promised_, or do you not recall?" Arion growled, and Atreus moved not a bit, not even to blink.

"I remember. And I will. But I swore an oath, Arion, and I must speak with the others first before a word may escape my lips."

"This does not just involve the five of you, you know." Arion spat, twirling the blade in his hand idly. "The greatest loss was to Lithia, Lithia and our cousins, but they were not the only ones who lost a future binding with whatever tragedy took place!"

Atreus recoiled as if slapped, Cyan nearly bit through his tongue as he started backing up silently, absently brushing the bare skin of his ring finger where a band of betrothal had once shown silver, green and blue, and Arion looked slightly sick, as if cursing his own words. Fighting back his own wave of sudden nausea, Cyan kept moving steadily away, since both had been too preoccupied to detect a slinking, worried Royal. Why did Arion have to mention _that_, of all things? _Why_? Wasn't thinking about it and living it enough? Did he not think that they regretted it as much as he did? Did he think that neither loved him anymore because of their silence?

It's just…some secrets are not meant to be shared nor spoken of. Secrets you would die to keep.

"That was uncalled for, Arion." Atreus finally managed to say, subconsciously rubbing his own finger as though he'd received a phantom shock.

"I'm not sure I care anymore." Arion replied, voice becoming chilled and dark. "As you so obviously don't."

"Arion, this is _my_ pain, _my_ grief—"

"Fool!" The last of Arion's natural serenity evaporated. "Do you not _see_?" He demanded of his brother a bit hysterically, lashing out with the dagger and slicing Atreus's forearm open, his own immediately splitting in response, and his twin didn't even try to get away, just stood stiffly, staring at him with such a feeling of being _torn_ that Arion seemed to want to scream, and did. "_When you bleed, I bleed!_"

_Yes_, Cyan thought cryptically as he stepped back into the candlelight. _But for how much longer?_

………………………………………………………………………………...

Lithia surveyed the immediate area with a calculating eye, wondering where she could next cause the most trouble. That Duke's wife was already severely pissed off; she'd made sure to make Tristen's little whore pay when she'd seen him get angry; and she'd outwitted the Lord of Normandy into giving her family a stretch of land he owned, one which bore a very interesting mausoleum deep under its surface. A mausoleum that was rumored to house the stone on which the pact between Lucifer and the White God had been forever burnt with their divine blood. She knew that Damien and Tristen, at least, would be interested.

Nothing less could be expected from the Morningstar's own Priests.

And now she had grown bored again, which seemed to happen quite a lot lately. But boredom was better than the constant morbid melancholy, so she clung to it. Passing the long refreshment table, she scooped up a goblet of Nirvana-spiked rum and downed it quickly. Disregarding how much she'd had already, she finished off quite a few more, enough to thoroughly kill a house elf. Blessed numbness crept through her, her eyes became ever frostier if possible, and a very-fucked up smile crossed her face as she watched a lithe, yet imposing, figure approach the table. It would be stupid, very, _very_ stupid, to spread her games to him. She knew that.

"Good Eve, little one." He intoned with unconscious velvet etherealness, and she waited for the customary charge of awe and allegiance to pass into the usual throb before responding.

"My King." She said quietly with a formal curtsey, before leaning in for a greeting kiss that was as warm as either could make it, considering who they were.

"I have need of fresh air." He commented with a refined tilt of his head, long hair falling over one cheek and across full lips. "You may accompany me if you wish."

"I would enjoy that, your majesty." She took his offered arm and pretended not to see the pitying glances of other members of the Court, glances born of the knowledge that without her other half, she was little more than a vengeful wraith.

"Come now, Lithia." He smirked, a bare twitching of lips as they made their way down a short side hallway, behind a portrait and through a hidden door, until they reached the sprawling, maze-like gardens. "Surely you, the prized daughter of my dearest friends, my niece by oaths and the beloved of my sons, need not play such name games with one who raised you, hmm?"

"The daughter of your dearest friends, yes; but your sons' beloved?" She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. "That was years ago, Uncle Draco."

"They will always love you, little one. Never doubt that."

She had to change the subject; she had to change it _now_, and was it her or the Nirvana that made his regal lips appear so inviting? She was so confused, so wretched and worn and confused, and she wouldn't, couldn't, talk about this now. Or ever, preferably. _No games, Lithia_, she told herself strictly, but her body wouldn't listen to her brain and her mouth was on his a moment later. She felt him stiffen only slightly, his lips starting to close instinctively, before it all evened out and he grew so very, very still, his mouth pliant but motionless until she pulled away, her head spinning. She didn't dare look up at him, wondering just how angry he would be.

As long as he forgot what had begun to be broached before, though…

"Do not ever do that again, little one." Draco said neutrally but firmly, and she truly hoped, suddenly, that there was not any of that damned pity in his eyes. Chancing a glance up, she was relieved to see nothing of the sort. All she saw was an odd, deific compassion that was much different than the dark violence usually contained in those moonlit orbs. "And they do love you."

Damn. It hadn't even worked. Wonderful. "One cannot love someone so eternally marred."

"Truly?" He asked with a mocking light in his black-ringed, mercury eyes, a light that spoke of plenty of secrets of his own. "Do tell that to Virginia, then. I believe she would have quite an unexpected little story for you…"

"You don't understand." She protested weakly. "I…it…"

"We know what happened, foolish girl."

Draco's words were like a dip in icy water, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to sink into the grass and disappear. How could they have been so stupid? Of _course_ the High Kings would know, as would the Queen, most likely. They were the bloody Chosen of Cocidius, the absolute rulers of the entire Shadow Realm! To think that they wouldn't have learned exactly what had happened without any of the few who knew talking was a bit idiotic. And then came another horrible thought, one she could definitely have lived without._ Oh gods, they're all going to know, they're all going to point and curse and accuse_…_They're all going to know of our disgrace_…

"Let me renounce my family ties first." She pleaded, allowing it because it was a plea to her King, which was just…_different_ than any other. "Do not force them into such dishonor with me. I will suffer my sins alone if you will but allow it."

Draco simply stared at her. "You're a strange one, you know that?"

"W-_What_?"

"_Honestly_, little one." He sighed, running his fingers over a smooth marble statue of his own beloved, Blaise's aristocratic dignity captured quite becomingly. "You are not to be punished, or you would have been already." He waited for the logic of that statement to fully sink in, a second or two at max. "No magic can heal you, you know this."

"Yes." Oh, how she knew. "But…are you sure you understand what we _did_? What we _had_ to do? You're too…too…"

"Calm?" He supplied sarcastically, sighing again when she nodded. "Let's just say that I understand more than you think, as does your god."

She paled. "Hades…Hades knows?" It was as she feared, then.

"I shouldn't even dignify that with an answer." He intoned evenly, flicking snow off the nearest bush at her. "But yes, of course He knows. He has also noted that you have stopped praying."

Would her King think less of her if she began sobbing? "I…"

"I know, little one." He stopped, seemed to consider something, and the ageless, ancient wisdom in his eyes was both a paradox and a blessing as he lifted her chin with lethal, loving fingers and forced her to meet those hallowed, unearthly eyes. "But you, of all people, should know better than to turn your back upon the gods in your time of need. What would Luthen say if he knew that you had not so much as lit a candle at an altar for months?"

The first lavender tear escaped her as the coldness of his skin cracked her own icy walls. "He would say that I do not deserve to be one of Hades' Elite."

"But you will be upon your eighteenth birthday." Draco pointed out, silver eyes luminous. "For _He_ has not forsaken _you_."

Silence followed that for several minutes, as she thought everything over.

"You had this same conversation with Tristen and Damien, didn't you?" She suddenly accused, and Draco smiled a bit ferally.

"No." He replied truthfully, a very wicked sort of light dancing in his eyes. "Blaise lost a bet and had to do it before they bound themselves to the service of Lucifer. He was particularly…_vehement_ about winning this time around. And _he_ certainly wasn't _molested_."

Sweet. Fucking. Hell.

"You're never going to let me forget about that, are you?" She groaned.

He smirked mischievously. "No. Did you really expect any different? You bloody _kissed_ me, Lithia. That'll be good blackmail for _years_."

………………………………………………………………………………...

Livia remained in an alcove she had found earlier that evening, undisturbed by the constantly shifting dramas being played out all around her. Her mind was mostly peaceful for once, lulled by Nirvana and the drums, by the flickering candles and the sound of rich fabric sliding over marble as the purebloods all around her laughed and toasted and spun each other from partner to partner. She didn't care for dancing, though she would indulge occasionally, more interested in losing herself for a few hours, of forgetting everything. Which is why she was none too pleased when a small group of witches and wizards stopped by her hidden spot.

"Have you tried the wine?" One woman asked hazily, stumbling into her friend, who giggled and caught her. "It was made from the very vineyards of Elysium."

"The Crown Princes seem to like it." A man of about forty said by way of an answer, and Livia froze, before slowly sinking farther into the thick shadows. "I heard a servant was ordered to take them a case of it, wherever they are."

"They deserve a little drink." The second witch said, clucking her tongue. "After that whole mess with the McGregor boy…"

"Tragic, that." The other man agreed. "Positively tragic."

"They say there's more to the story." The first witch whispered conspiratorially. "They say that it was not just the fault of muggles. They say the Royal children—"

"Shhh, Amelia, you'll bring Hell down upon us all with such talk!" The first man exclaimed in a loud whisper, glancing around like a cornered fox.

"Oh, hush, Jameson." She scoffed. "Do you see a Royal anywhere? They've all left by now. And as I was saying, it's rumored that the Royal Children, those who came back alive, had some hand in Luth—"

"_Do not speak his name!_" The other woman hissed, clamping a hand over her mouth. The first witch shoved her off, glaring, before continuing.

"I'm serious! They say it was even worse than first thought, that he had not been simply _killed_—"

"_Amelia_—"

"That he was tortured, tortured by the Bane—"

With those…those _blasphemous_ words about her adored brother, Livia snapped, her usually impassive demeanor crumbling and her lips pulling back in a snarl before she pounced, her hands wrapping around the bitch's throat in a blur as her mind screamed denials. _No!_ Luthen, darling, cherished Luthen had not fallen to that…that _thing_! Their sister never would have allowed it, the Crown Princes never would have allowed it, Atreus and Cyan never would have…_No!_ It wasn't true, it _wasn't_! If it were, she would _know_, she would have been told before this fucking whore had caught wind of it, she would, she would…

"Livia! You're killing her!" A voice she recognized rang through the static fog in her brain, and she again became aware of the witch underneath her who had long ago stopped breathing. "Stop!"

But she didn't care to stop, she wanted the woman _dead_ for her horrid lies, wanted her head on a bloody fucking _pike_ in her room…And then she was being ripped away from her prey, frustration beginning to boil hotly within her as she spun in her captor's arms to come face-to-face with Blyss. _Shit_. Immediately freezing as her eyes were caught by both blue and silver, she prayed that Blyss couldn't feel her heart pounding or hear the little voice in the back of her mind that was fairly shrieking at that point. Taking a deep breath and trying for all she was worth to calm down, she held her best friend's eyes as her rage drifted away.

"Livia, whatever did she _do_ to you?" Blyss asked with a concerned glint in those startlingly gorgeous eyes, fully aware of how much it took to get Livia to freak out like that.

Cyan slid up next to them, wrapping his arm around her and shielding her from curious eyes with his billowing cloak, and she gave him as grateful a grin as she could manage at the moment. Moments later, he had shields going up as well, much to the crowd's disappointment. Leading her off as their guards saw to the critically injured witch with the big fucking mouth, she held onto another brother that was just as equally loved as the one lost, and tried not to start either laughing or screaming. Both had their appealing sides at the moment. Blyss held her hand tightly, and kept shooting her curious glances that would soon demand to be answered.

Then they were out of the ballroom and soon beneath the winter stars, the frigid air reminding them of many things as snow fell softly around them and the leaves of magically bred plants still acted as a background for the vividly colored blossoms that bore petals as soft as any cloud. Cyan dropped the shields but kept his arm across her shoulders, the warming spell on his cloak keeping both as warm as desired. Blyss, and Elemental and heir to the Throne of Fire, needed no such trick to keep her from being any temperature that she did not wish to be. They shortly found a small dead end, and sat upon the snow, enjoying the freezing feeling of it in their fingers.

"What the hell was that all about, Livia?" Cyan asked after several long moments of contemplating the many stars, and she noticed something all-too-familiar and dark in his turquoise eyes, something that hadn't been there when he'd first arrived.

"I…she said…"

"Yes?"

"She said that Luthen…that you…that the Bane—"

She stopped abruptly when he became so pale that she thought he would disappear against the white, white snow except for his meranti hair and black attire. Something fey and hunted flashed through normally fearless eyes, she felt her heart drop into her feet, and Blyss's grip on her hand became excruciatingly painful, not that she could care at the moment. Cyan looked completely thrown off balance, his eyes raw and wounded as if his soul was slowly bleeding out of them, before it was gone so quickly she might actually have been able to convince herself that it hadn't happened. But it _had_, and as her brother's eyes became hooded and far away, she felt like crying.

What had become of them?

She felt trapped, choked, and she couldn't seem to form any coherent words. Blyss just stared straight at him as if willing her own memory of his silent second of panic to vanish, while Cyan turned his now-empty eyes from them in a move that they had witnessed many times over the last couple of years. He couldn't be seriously upset. He just _couldn't_ be. Because that would mean that what she dreaded so horribly was _true_, and that was something that she couldn't accept. The one evil left to their world, the last enemy besides the filthy, disrespectful muggles, and now she comes to learn that Luthen, her strong, beloved brother, may have met his end in its clutches…

She was going to be sick, she was sure of it.

Crawling over to the nearest bush, her nausea overwhelmed her as she remembered the flashes she'd gotten from Lithia and Cyan through their weaker sibling bonds, and they flashed through her mind like a macabre slideshow. Destroyed pale flesh and twisted screams, shadowy purple blood littering everything, everything…And those eyes, those forest green eyes so full of torment, endless torment and then death, grassy orbs growing glassy and vacant and dull. Then power was rushing into her, power that she instantly recognized as Blyss's, and her stomach calmed even as her mind swirled ever faster. This couldn't be happening, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't…

"Come on, un ami dévoué." Blyss whispered, helping her stand, her own hands shaking violently. "Let us get away from here to think." ((devoted friend))

"Cyan—"

"Will be looked after by my brothers and my cousins, you know that. I doubt he wants us around right now, as is." Blyss said with wisdom much too great for her years, and Livia snickered when she figured it was probably something she had learned from her mother. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Livia said, feeling a bit hysterical. Then something moved on the other side of the tall, wall-like bush right next to them. Cyan looked over at them sharply from where he stood several meters away, piercing eyes warning them not to make a sound while he crept closer, a bow appearing in his hands with a murmured spell. They followed soundlessly, making the short walk in no time, when they heard the garbled voices.

"Come now…surely you…prized…oaths…beloved…need not play such games…"

"Your dearest…your…beloved…years…Draco."

Blyss shot a very confused look at Livia, who rose her eyebrows and shrugged.

"I can see them." Cyan said so quietly that even they could barely hear him, and they leaned in to look through the small holes he'd made in the thick hedge with an arrow and a silencing spell. There was Lithia and another with unmistakable molten mercury hair, so it had to be Tristen, and were they talking about beloveds? Livia felt her mood lighten slightly. If they could heal…

"They will always love you, little one. Never doubt that."

_Holy shit, not Tristen, not Tristen!_ Livia thought frantically a second before the two figures were kissing, and she very nearly squealed as she felt like she'd been hit by a stunning spell. Blyss gaped and then silently spluttered, before ramifications began slamming into all three's minds. Lithia and Draco were fucking kissing! _Kissing_! If they hadn't seen it with their own eyes, they never would have believed it. It was just…_wrong_, wrong on _so_ many levels, and Livia wondered if her jaw had quite reached the snowy ground just yet. She seriously wouldn't have fucking doubted it just then. In fact, she'd be truly shocked if it hadn't.

Before another second passed, Blyss had grabbed her arm and started running, and Livia sped after her noiselessly, wondering if she'd gone mad, or if she was dreaming. Yes, _surely_ that was it…And where was Cyan? She couldn't see him in front or behind them, but Blyss showed no sign of slowing, so Livia had no choice but to match her speedy pace and try not to imagine her liquefied brain leaking from her ears. It was all too much, and she didn't like it a bit. She wanted to go back in time, before mentions of the Bane and impossible snogs. She wanted to go back before Luthen's death and the never-ending tide of grief that had followed.

But some things were impossible even for the Royals.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Pansy fingered one of her many blades lovingly, wishing she were out with a hunting party or in the dueling grounds; anywhere but where she was. She usually didn't mind balls, as they gave her a good excuse to get utterly wasted, but too much rested on her mind for even a bit of blessed relief from it. She hadn't felt relief in years, nor true joy or happiness, not since her cherished son had never come back home to her. Forever guilty for being gone in his and Lithia's time of need, she hadn't journeyed to the Underworld since and she longed for it fiercely. But she longed more to protect her surviving children, and that and that alone kept her so cruelly chained to the Shadow Realm.

Once you'd tasted Heaven and Hell, nothing matched them.

Trailing her eyes slowly over those gathered, she sipped her wine and tried not to scream. Her youngest daughter had just attacked a noble, her eldest daughter was acting like a closet slut, her one remaining blood son could barely walk upright due to so much…something, and as for her stepson and Lithia…well. Cyan was gone with Livia, and Lithia was still with Draco somewhere in the gardens. Those two worried her endlessly, her love for Cyan no less because he was not of her blood, and she dreaded each continued moment, because every one seemed to draw them closer to some invisible edge where there was no healing, let alone feeling.

The Crown Princes, though, they were back. They'd reappeared almost an hour before, arrogant masks firmly in place and haughty, dangerous smirks on their faces. They reminded her so much of Draco and Blaise that it was slightly frightening in a way it hadn't been a few years ago. Their eyes had been clear, then, naturally cold and crackling but still…still mostly innocent. Now they were very close to being exact replicas of their fathers' occasionally eerie eyes, full of such dark, heartbreaking secrets that they could make even her want to sink to the floor and sob, something she hadn't done since Luthen's death, nor for years before that.

And for the last hour, her godsons had been weaving a slippery game of bloody seduction through the many assembled elite witches and wizards, feasting here and playing there, as though there was no end to their energy or depravity, which she knew to be quite true. Delirious, panting, screaming, wanton mages were left everywhere in their wake and the Court had only witnessed such a thing twice before, once nearly eight months ago and once when they were sixteen. Hungry eyes watched and wished and waited, wondering if they would be chosen as a 'victim' and praying it would be so. And divine blue eyes observed it all, neutrally and coldly.

Blaise wouldn't stop his sons, but he wouldn't let them carelessly kill a courtier, either.

"You brood too much, my love." Anton commented lazily in her ear a moment before his hands settled on her shoulders and began rubbing them firmly, very nearly making her moan.

"And you don't?" She tossed back flippantly even as she leaned in closer to him.

"Hmm, perhaps. But not while my wife looks so very…edible."

She purred. "Do feel free to eat me any time, dear."

"You," he started softly, his warm breath doing delicious things to her skin, "are a wicked, wicked witch."

"Indeed? Well, I—"

She was cut off by a burning pain in her forearm, which very nearly dropped her to her knees, shortly followed by the wards coming fully alive with divine power and making a thrumming feeling wash through the air, as though a sound too low for even her ears was roaring all around them. Anton's arms moved to encircle her waist even as he himself fought the momentary agony and disorientation, keeping her on her feet and digging his fingers into her hips hard enough to leave bloody furrows even through the rich fabric of her gown. Then, as if to make up for their brief suffering, the energy turned soothing and loving, protective and forever fierce.

Catching her breath and straightening, she watched the other nobles and many of the Royals slowly rise from the floor where they'd fallen, their aristocratic masks cracking, some with blooming rage and others with wary fear, dreading what the activation meant. Whispers broke out, soft and anxious, and Pansy unsheathed one of her blades without the least bit of conscious thought. And then, like one throwing a heavy stone into a pond, silence spread as those assembled dropped to their knees again, this time of their own free will. Because Blaise moved for the entry doors, indigo eyes glowing and brilliant with power, claws like shards of obsidian flashing in the flickering light.

He looked like a feral god, like Death trapped within a human-seeming shell.

Those watching, who were as completely awed as they always were when one of the Sovereigns gave off such a feeling of celestial supremacy, parted as if in a trance, eyes glued to their King. And then Virginia was at his side as if from nowhere, her hair a fall of pure flames and her ivory skin alight with a wavering energy much like the heat of the sun itself, charcoal eyes narrowed in a very deadly way. Drawn to them irresistibly, Pansy and Anton went to their side as they always had and always would, without a question or comment, ready at a moment's notice to do whatever they wished. Sais in hand and her mind utterly clear, she snarled at a servant that wasn't quite quick enough.

"Move, you fool!" She hissed, and the boy's whimper did nothing to appease her. Sneering and wasting not a second more on him, she and her husband threw open the main double doors and glided through, eyes running over every nook and shadow. She felt Padma, Fred and George join them seconds later, but she was more concerned with whatever had set off the wards. She planned to head straight outside and check for herself immediately, but fate had other ideas, unbeknownst to her.

"Your m-majesties!" A shrill voice cried out from down the short hall, before a small figure draped in the cloak of a border guard ran towards them from where they'd been heading, before sliding to a stop and falling upon his face. "Y-Your majesties, y-you _must_ come!"

His high tone drew many eyes, but there was nothing for it.

"What has happened?" Virginia demanded, and Pansy knew that she was irked at Cocidius because she was tapping her Mark with sharp nails impatiently, which she always did when He stayed silent about something. Then there was the minute glare at her other Mark, which testified that the Dark Lady, the Queen of All, had also chosen to say nothing. Pansy almost smirked at the familiar gesture. She'd done it for ages before she'd found the spell that she'd needed to have the Crown Princes, and more than a few times since.

"Yes." Another voice agreed, before Damien and Tristen emerged from the crowded room as if her thoughts had summoned them, though she knew that was very unlikely. "_Do_ tell us what's going on."

"O-Outside! He…he's outside!" The stuttering, obviously-in-shock guard managed to choke out, and Pansy felt the stirrings of something like illness in her stomach as Lithia stalked up next to her ex-fiancés, Draco at her side like some vision of dazzling frost and pure, consecrated ice, the black rings around bewitching orbs bleeding into silver and making oceans of his eyes.

There…there was _something_ in the air, something besides the divinity of the shields. Something…

"Who's outside?" No one disobeyed that tone, not from Draco. Not ever.

"I…he…I m-mean…crazy, t-truly crazy…b-but, my King, I-I _swear_…"

"Get on with it. _Who's outside?_"

"L-Luthen McGregor! I s-swear it on the Q-Queen's life!"

And no one ever, _ever_ made such an oath without wanting to die or being _absolutely fucking__ positive_.

Heart abruptly thudding, blood running cold, the last thing Pansy saw was her darling daughter's stricken face before she sagged into Anton's arms, darkness consuming all.

………………………………………………………………………………...

I am eternally sorry this took so long (the longest ever, actually), but I've been dealing with personal issues that haven't left me a lot of time to write. Please forgive me, but sometimes, reality truly is a fucking bitch.

And as a short, serious side note, I would like to request that all of you read the article found at the address below. For long moments as I was reading this, I was too fucking stunned to speak. The fact that such a barbaric thing might have actually become law frightens me like little else. At the end, the author asked for help in spreading the word, and if I can do nothing else, I can at least do that much by telling all of you. _Please, please, please_ read this if you live in the United States. If something like this is ever allowed to happen, it won't just be Virginia. It'll only _start_ there.

Just take out the spaces in the address, since this website never lets me do links. (sighs)

http : democracy for virginia . typepad . com / democracy for virginia / 2005 / 01 / legislative sen . html

(Note: There are supposed to be underscores between:

/ democracy for virginia /

and

/ legislative sen.)


	6. Turning Tides

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Author's Note and Apology: **/ducks the various objects being thrown at self's head/ **I'M SORRY! **I am so sorry for falling off the planet for so long, but I do actually have a very good excuse. I dated the wrong guy (stupidstupidstupid) and ended up in jail. Yes, jail. And yes, it was the suckiest and shittiest experience of my entire life. But I'm out now and we sooo broke up, and I'm working again (boo!). I'm going to try and pick this up where I left off, and can only pray that you'll all (eventually) forgive me. /hides/ I love you, I really do. And for this one chapter, I'm not doing review responses. There's been too many and for different chappies and such, and I need to get back in a groove, lol. But I will continue doing them after this chap, and just so you all know, your comments were read and as greatly cherished as always. Now, enough of my babbling and on with the story!

………………………………………………………………………………...

Aleron stood perfectly still on one of the wraparound balconies at the head Delacour mansion, the deep purple velvet of a Royal Guard flapping around him wildly in the stiff wind that had begun blowing in from the northeast. The cloak's almost alive-seeming antics didn't bother him though, for few things did, and certainly not something so trivial. All he truly cared for at the moment, and most of the time besides, was the safety of the Royal family. Had he not been one of the privileged few that the High Royals had chosen for such a task, he would have had every right to be inside with them, dancing and laughing and drinking the night away.

He was a cousin to the Thunder King, after all.

But he didn't mind not doing so, because the honor gained from wearing the purple far outweighed any momentary pleasure to be found within the walls behind him, and it wasn't as though he hadn't been inside them countless times before. He was a Delacour himself, son of Silana's brother Carel, and a large amount of his childhood and adult years had been spent there. But he only had one true duty now, and he was determined not to ever fail. Not again. He had done so once and a Royal had died. He _would not_ let it happen a second time. So when a flash of something strange caught his eye, everything within him stilled, his senses becoming as sharp as Pansy's knives.

Something moved a league out, on the estate's south border, just outside the wards. Something human-sized, but if his eyes were not deceiving him, it was _not_ human. Nothing mortal moved like that. Even from so far away, he could see the grace, the power and strength, and his first instinct of wariness soon changed to something stronger. It was no desperate muggle seeking entrance, nor a mage caught outside. No, it was something else, and he leapt from the balcony without another moment's notice, a low whistle alerting the other Royal guards. Most were inside with their specific charges, but his charge was dead. Dead and gone and lost eternally.

Luthen's other guards answered his call immediately.

Six hooded figures soon joined him, prolonged grief still and forever shadowing them, and no words were needed as they, too, saw what had drawn his eye. Silently and simultaneously, they started for the border, seeing no need in calling for more aid. Whatever it was couldn't get through the wards, and if the seven of them couldn't handle it, then it was something the other guards would be useless against as well, except for, perhaps, the Ezutîël. The trek across the soft grass took no time at all, and they didn't try to hide their approach from the figure that seemed to be pacing before the border, eyeing the wards as though testing them out.

Aleron studied the creature as they drew nearer, his cold blue gaze traveling over the dark crimson cloak that shrouded a tall, seemingly well-built frame, but not much else could be seen but for the very tips of black boots, as the figure had its hood drawn low, concealing its features, if it even had any. He was beginning to think it might be a spirit, for it paid them no heed as they drew even with it, nor could he sense anything from it but a slight chill. Sharing a glance with his second-in-command, he noticed one of the border guards not very far off, his wand drawn and his eyes on them gratefully, as if he hadn't really wanted to deal with the thing on his own.

"What is it?" The lesser guard asked them, but none answered. Their attention was glued to the other, and Aleron stepped slightly forward.

"Reveal yourself!" he commanded, expecting some response, _any_ response, except the one that he received.

The creature simply laughed.

A freezing tingle swept down his spine, for he knew that laugh, though it was off, twisted, and a foreboding sense of warning and fear swept through him to his very soul. The other guards took a single step back, hands going to their wands and assorted weapons while the border guard looked as though he might faint. Aleron tensed, wondering for the first time if it had been wise to come and face this being alone, wise not to call an Ezutîël, when it finally lifted its head, its hood still casting shadows too deep to see anything but flashes of moon-pale skin and blood-red lips. And those lips were curving, shaping themselves into a wicked, mocking sneer.

"Come now, Aleron," it hissed, and its slithering voice traveled along his skin, through his bones, until he felt like screaming, cursing, weeping. "Is that any way to greet your master?"

"You are not my master," Aleron spat, but it was weaker than it should have been, for he actually doubted his own words, though he didn't know why. Or maybe he _did_, even then.

"But I am," the creature intoned silkily, moving the slightest bit forward and caressing the outer wards as another would a lover's skin. "I have been since my eyes first opened in this world, since I drew my first breath. Long have the seven of you followed me, sworn to me at my birth. Will you go back on those oaths now?"

"No," Aleron whispered, not sure what he was denying anymore. Something pulled at him, something that hadn't awoken inside him for what felt like ages, and the joy he should have felt was there, but slightly…sick.

"Good. Now come to me, my faithful guards. Come and join me," it called cajolingly, and they had all taken several steps forward before Aleron stopped and fought the pull, still doubtful, still somewhat his own person.

"I do not believe you!" he cried, his head feeling as though it were splitting open. "You are not him! You _cannot_ be!"

It laughed again. "So paranoid, dear one, as always. You know already that I am. But if it is proof you need, I shall grant your wish, for time grows short and I wish to see those who murdered me. It is time to play a game."

And then, like the sun sinking below the horizon, the figure lowered its hood, releasing a spill of star-struck midnight hair and a face as familiar to the guards as the Queen's face was to the Kings. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones and full, sinful lips; skin like liquid satin and eyes like priceless green diamonds. All knew that face, the androgynous twin of another just like it, and _they_ knew it better than almost any. The last of Aleron's doubt melted away, as did any resistance, and he knew, then, that he would follow and protect this tainted being just as truly as he always had before. He reached forward as he and his brethren fell to their knees, wonder and awe engulfing them.

He only vaguely saw the border guard find his feet and run towards the mansion as though being chased by the hounds of Hell itself.

………………………………………………………………………………

Cyan didn't like this. Any of it. He didn't like the wards' violent reaction mere minutes ago, he didn't like the arrival of the guard or the words that spilled from it, and he didn't like Pansy fainting, which he'd never even known was possible. But most of all, he didn't like running as fast as possible towards what was said to be Luthen. For he knew the truth, the morbid, maddening truth, and if it really _was_ Luthen, then they should all be running the other way. For he had been there that day, he knew what had happened, and he wanted to tell the High Royals to stop, he wanted to tell Lithia, who looked alive with hope, to stop, but the pleads died in his throat, choking him with renewed regret and denial.

Cool night air hit him with an energizing rush as they streamed outside in a line of velvet and silken elegance, ignoring the startled guards, and he followed the Queen, who led them to the presence they could feel growing stronger and stronger as they neared it. He had not felt the brush of that aura in centuries, it seemed, and a million remembered images hit him dead on, washing through him like a wave made of their glorious past, their past before the end of all they knew. He saw Lithia, saw her running to her twin with her eyes alight and her arms outstretched, welcoming him home after a hunt with a bright smile and a feral laugh.

He saw Damian, saw him playing some song on his once-beloved piano, before the Crown Prince forgot the music entirely as he saw Luthen enter the room, muscles slithering under suede and dark hair glistening. He saw Tristan, silver eyes narrowed in concentration as he pulled a bowstring taut and let the arrow fly, embedding it in a tree right above Luthen's head, his aim all the better for the fact that he would never let himself miss, not with his love in such peril. Then Cyan saw himself, his hands covered in lilac blood as tears streamed down his cheeks, a scream building in the back of his throat as he stared down at a corpse he would never forget, _could_ never forget.

'_No!_' He thought near desperately, slamming his inner barriers closed on such memories and searching stain-free hands for any trace of horror. Then his eyes lifted and he froze, not knowing whether to be strangely thrilled or morosely saddened that Anton and Pansy were still inside, because...

Luthen. It was _Luthen_.

Even Lithia's cry of delight and shock couldn't rip Cyan's gaze away from the bloodied, beaten form laying on the grayish grass before them, and his rationality warred with his heart until he felt as though he were finally dying. For _Luthen_ lay there, bleeding from numerous wounds and keening softly to himself as though he were crazed, crazed and hurt and terrified, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his scratched hands balled into fists, dirt-caked nails digging into his skin. His robes were ripped and torn, liquid purple life pooling underneath him, and Cyan's instincts fought and screamed at each other, half wanting to heal, half wanting to kill.

But…but he could sense no evil. Not this time.

"Brother!" Lithia finally exclaimed, lunatic triumph dancing across her face, and she ran to him, a disturbing parody of Cyan's memory. But she was stopped, and by the least expected sources.

"No," Damian hissed as he and Tristan pulled her back, such pain and heartache in their eyes that Cyan could _feel_ it, feel it as though it were almost his own, slicing into him like poisoned blades of despair.

"_What are you doing?_" she screeched, fighting their hold helplessly, and Luthen whimpered, making her scream and the twins flinch. Cyan turned, eyes seeking the Sovereigns, and saw them standing silently, observing the situation with not a single emotion apparent anywhere about them.

"How can we _know_, Lithia?" Tristan demanded, the words strained, as though they cost him everything. "How can we know that he is not still…"

"He isn't!" she countered when he trailed off, her struggling ceasing as her voice turned convincing. "Drop your shields. Drop them and _feel_ him, use our bond. It is _Luthen_, my loves, Luthen returned to us finally! Our prayers have been answered!"

Cyan shivered and swore he could sense something, something whispering in his mind.

"You can't heal what happened to him," he was saying before he could think, and their eyes snapped to him. "You can't heal what was done and cannot be undone."

Lithia looked momentarily thrown, before green eyes narrowed in a glare so potent that a lesser mage would have cowered on hands and knees before her, keening and begging her forgiveness. But Cyan was a McGregor as well, and he met those malevolent eyes dead on, though he himself wished to deny his own words, to take them back and say that he, too, was sure of Luthen's cleanliness. But only half of him was sure, the other half emboldened and strengthened by a source he couldn't name, a source that felt of divinity and old, colossal power. Eyes going again to the Sovereigns, he briefly wondered if it was them, but something told him it wasn't.

Not this time.

But strangely, his words didn't seem to reach the Crown Princes, and a part of his soul screamed in warning as their guard softened the slightest bit, blue and silver gazes trailing ever-so-slowly to their missing beloved, their pain too great to stall their wishful hearts for long. They had few weaknesses, almost none, in fact, but Lithia and Luthen had always gotten past their barriers in ways that were almost always incomprehensible, even to their friends and family. Cyan watched with bated breath as they slowly released Lithia, as the three of them crept to Luthen's side on silent feet and knelt beside him, crushing agony and expectant hope radiating off them in waves.

Pale fingers extended carefully, as if they feared he would shatter as he had so often in their raving visions and hallucinations, and Cyan once again was torn on what to do, how to act. He loved all four before him, loved them with a fierceness that bordered on insanity and pure depravity, and for once, he was clueless about how to proceed. He wanted to join them, to let soft skin trail over Luthen's wounds in a wash of healing and rebirth, but he also wanted to rip them away and do what he'd had to do once before, befouling his hands with the blood of a mighty Royal in order to keep his family and people safe. Wrenched both ways, he made the only choice he could.

Turning, his feet feeling leaden and his soul fit to rupture, it was broken eyes that fell on his Sovereigns that time as he made his way to them as if in a dream, a dream that was much too close to being a vicious nightmare. Blaise's vivid indigo gaze was the first to meet his, almost immediately followed by Draco's, as if the two were so intertwined that they couldn't help but move so in tune with one another, which Cyan knew to be fact rather than fancy. Virginia's, however, never left their sons, though he knew that she could see him through their eyes clearly enough if she chose to do so. Reaching them, he fell gracefully at their feet in a sorrowful, fluid movement.

"Help me, Uncles, for I know not what to do," he said so softly that no others could have caught his despondent words, and he could feel those holy eyes burning into him even though he could not bring himself to look up, too many thoughts racing inside his troubled mind.

"And what help do you seek from us, proud one?" Draco questioned idly, such freezing fury trapped within his words that Cyan's head snapped up, warning tingling through his very bones. But Draco's ire was not directed at him, and he tried to relax, though such was seemingly impossible at the moment.

"Is he…is he tainted?" he paused, and let a thousand unrealistic fantasies shape his next, wistful words. "Or…is he safe?"

So much meaning in so few syllables, and he knew as soon as his Sovereigns' expressions became ever blanker that they knew more about the situation then they'd ever let on before. Shame, which at one time had been alien to him, rose up once again, and only his inborn pride allowed him to keep his gaze steady and his hands from shaking. Before either could answer him, however, approaching footsteps alerted him to another's presence, and his gaze met wise black eyes that he knew all too well. Madison slowed, his easy grace apparent in every movement, every breath, and he observed Cyan curiously, obviously wondering why he was kneeling before the Kings.

The son of Blaise's first cousin, Mira, and one of the Sovereigns' closest confidants, Sebastian, Madison was as beautiful as one could be. Silvery white hair swayed around him, falling to his waist in the long, loose fashion that most Royals preferred, and his infinitely dark eyes glowed with both keenness and cruelty. Slender, tall and leanly muscled, he filled out his silk dress robes quite nicely, and Cyan knew with a lover's knowledge exactly how soft his covered skin was, how passionate he could be when lost in ecstasy with one that he actually bothered to love. For Madison was as Slytherin as Cyan himself, and he loved just as sparsely.

"Hail, Cyan," he greeted cautiously in tones as smooth as the cloth that covered him, before giving the Kings a sweeping bow. "I was told that you might be in need of my services."

Sly eyes traveled over the scene before him, over Damian and Tristan, Lithia and the returned Luthen. Madison actually flinched as he beheld the last, impossible figure with his own eyes, the barest flash of pain and remembered grief making those spellbinding black orbs momentarily luminescent, before his masks snapped fully back in place and a sense of uncaring flippancy ruled all once more. Cyan rose, as eternally elegant as always, and accepted Madison's embrace as one would accept a sip of water while dying of unimaginable thirst. His seconds in those arms let him regain his own briefly shattered control, and one by one, his emotions trickled away.

Gods, it was good to be a Slytherin.

"Services, Madison?" Cyan asked, cold eyes trained on those before him as though he were watching one of his old plays, something fake and unreal, not something that had the power to break even him. "I require nothing. Not love, nor warmth, nor _services_ of any kind."

A primal baring of teeth, which they called a smile and others called a soundless snarl, was his only reply but for seven words that washed right over him. Because right then, the tragic part was that Cyan had spoken nothing but the absolute truth.

"Good," Madison intoned, nipping the other's lip sharply enough to draw Royal blood. "Otherwise, I'd think you'd gone soft."

………………………………………………………………………………...

Blyss stared blankly at the rugged scenery around her, her thoughts flying over the last few days as she walked a perilous path. Her feet found easy enough purchase on loose rocks and sandy soil, but the endless drop directly to her right could probably kill her should she trip or stumble. She had come here, to the Great Battlefield, to clear her mind of its current turmoil. The trench beside her was infamous, created when Cocidius had ripped the High Crown from Dagda's brow, but there were no tourists there at night, no sightseers, for few dared come under the light of the moon, fearing the spirits of those who had died in that epic battle.

But Blyss feared few things, and the underlying sense of death, torment and victory around her was very nearly comforting. The last week had been brutal, and she needed time alone, time away from the chaotic Palace and the tears of joy and regret, as well as the suspicious eyes. Luthen's return had sparked a chain reaction of many things, happiness and sorrow just two among them. Lithia was ecstatic, never far from her healing twin's side, Damian and Tristan were confused and wary but not without their own glowing enthusiasm, Arion was dumbfounded and Atreus silently shocked, and Cyan…Cyan was shut off from everyone but Madison.

Livia knew not what to think, also at her brother's side day and night, and Blyss's parents had stayed watchful but uninvolved. Pansy was beside herself, a mother's instinctual protectiveness coming roaring to the forefront, but Blyss found her uncle's reaction the most interesting and surprising. Because Anton, whom she'd assumed would be thrilled, had barely stepped inside his son's rooms since he'd returned, opting instead to spend the majority of his time with Blyss's fathers as he usually did. And there was something guarded in his hazel eyes, something that spoke of lost trust and defeated dreams, something that brought tears stinging to Blyss's eyes.

She loved her uncle dearly. But most importantly, she trusted his judgment infallibly.

And because of that, she had only seen Luthen once, her beloved, darling Luthen, when he had first been brought in, bloody and insensible. The world tilting and changing irreplaceably once again, she had laid wine-stained lips upon his own and fought not to cry. He had looked at her as if seeing right through her, as if she were as inconsequential as seaweed in a hurricane, and she'd taken a stumbling step back, unbelieving of his callous regard, before Lithia had squeezed his hand and he'd turned delighted eyes on her. As they'd continued down the hall, Blyss had been frozen in place, her fingers fluttering to her lips as if they might've fallen from her face at any moment.

She'd known pain then, pain and the cold sting of rejection, because she had always loved Luthen. She had loved him from her very earliest memories, when he would sit with her for hours on end and tell her stories that he himself had only just been told, and he would sing to her, sometimes with her brothers and sometimes alone, until she would tumble into dreams of unimagined sweetness and red blood. As they grew older, his brotherly interest in her never waned, his devotion never faltered, and he, Lithia and the twins taught her how to fight, to pray, to love. Their parents trained them all, but little girls sometimes need more than busy Royals can always give.

She'd forever known how important her parents, aunts and uncles were, she'd always known that they had duties she did not yet understand, and she'd understood that they still loved her endlessly, even when they couldn't always be with her. So the Royal children had banded together, most being around the same ages, and they had continued their own lessons when their parents simply couldn't. As heir to the Throne of Flame, there was plenty that Blyss had to know, plenty that she had to experience and master. And her brothers, Luthen and Lithia had always been there for her, helping in any way she required. So yes, she'd always cherished Luthen, had always respected and adored him immeasurably.

And she'd thought, until that moment, that he loved her as well.

A horrible thought had come to her then, a wispy voice from deep inside her clambering up and whispering that at least when he'd been 'dead', she'd still had his affection and favor. Her eyes brimming and her soul weeping, she had turned away, furious and wounded, only to meet Anton's burning gaze. She had seen many things then, things that tore at her as few could. Because she'd suddenly known, with startling clarity, that Anton did not believe that being was his beloved son. He did not believe that _Luthen_ was truly back among them, and he did not believe that everything would now be all right. And there was something cold covering his hot fury, something murderous and lifeless.

A glimpse into Anton's soul was both terrifying and steadying.

But she certainly didn't fancy having another, at any rate. She'd known he was slightly mad before, but the drenching insanity that she'd briefly glimpsed then had been beyond sobering. Then, as if he'd known what she'd seen, what she'd thought, his masks had slid fully back into place and he'd turned, sweeping down the hall even as his wife had called him back from the door to Luthen's room. And one thing was certain, Blyss acknowledged as she kicked a rock into the trench with a booted toe. Pansy did _not_ understand Anton's hesitance and mild disgust whatsoever. She didn't understand his long absences and apathetic stance.

She didn't understand how he could look at 'Luthen' and feel nothing, how he could name him an imposter in a voice filled with divine, glacial indifference. Blyss had heard her pleading with him, then screaming until her voice broke and curses followed his retreating form, and she feared that she was witnessing the beginning of their end. For Anton's view would never change, nor would Pansy's. Not without rock-solid proof, which neither possessed. So Blyss had taken to spending most of her time with him, never seeing or speaking of Luthen, but lending her silent support. She hated going against her favorite aunt, but she truly had no other choice at this point.

So when he wasn't with her fathers, he was with her, and she did her damnedest to keep his mind on other things, such as archery or muggle hunting, matters of state or talks of remodeling. And as she spent ever more time with him, her bitterness towards Livia grew. Because Livia had sided with her mother and sister, ignoring her father except to glare in his direction or make a biting, painful remark, and every time that such a thing caused Anton's eyes to grow ever more remote and detached, she felt the tiniest spark of hate begin to blossom inside her core. She had always loved Livia, too, but the girl would no longer hear her words nor heed her advice.

And she hurt one very dear to Blyss with every refusal.

"Blyss." A familiar voice carried across the open grass, and she had a single, wry thought. _Speak of the devil._

"Uncle," she replied slowly, turning on one heel and watching Anton carefully as he strode towards her, having appeared out of thin air as though her very thoughts had summoned him.

His hair was long today, swishing around his knees in a curtain of pure silk, and he still wore robes that had stunned the Court for an entire week now, robes of renewed mourning. Robes so black that they almost needed another name to define the color, robes that ate the shimmering starlight and drew one's gaze to those eyes, eyes that had held their own small flecks of black for as long as she could recall, though her mother had told her once that it hadn't always been so. That he had gained them with his first wandless unleashing, an unleashing caused by Pansy's pain. But no matter their birth, she found them as beautiful as the rest of him.

And gods, such beauty there was to behold.

Suddenly shaky, she cursed her turmoil-filled thoughts, cursed how weak they made her feel, she who knew she could take anyone but a select handful, one of whom was now almost to her, studying her eyes, which were seldom so expressive, and apparently not liking what he found there. Beginning to turn her head in shame at him seeing her so, she was surprised when rarely gentle fingers softly grabbed her chin and forced her to meet that powerful gaze, those abyssal orbs shot with ebony. And there she found what she sought, there she found love and adoration, there she found acceptance, even of her real and imagined faults.

And…and something stirred inside of her, something frightening and forbidden.

Realization hit hard, so hard it took her breath and her balance both, and she would have fallen then, straight to her death, had unimaginably strong arms not encircled her waist and pulled her forward into a firm, god-like chest. The cloying scents of myrrh and sanctity were like an eternal welcome, and she cared not how close she had come to falling. All she cared for as her crimson head lifted and she met those damning eyes again was one thing. That this creature, this sublime, unearthly creature never again felt pain or sadness or abandonment. That he never again felt the traitorous touch of forsaken love or the destroying sensation of grief.

How Pansy and Livia could turn away from him was incomprehensible.

Locking continued thoughts of them away, as they seemed to make her ever angrier, her thoughts turned, instead, to her brothers. _So strong_, she pondered, _so strong and deadly and strange, and yet so consumed by a love that even they can feel has been warped beyond their control. _A scary idea invaded her suddenly, and a fierce desire to return home and to their sides engulfed her like a tide of churning magma. What if they, even with all of their strength, were no match for the sweet temptations that this 'Luthen' could offer? They wanted so badly for it to be him as he had been, wanted so badly to have their love back within their lives once more.

A sense of urgency built within her, a sense of the Fates beginning to spin their twisted webs ever faster, and Anton felt her sudden unease, beginning to loosen his grip until she stopped him, burying her face in the crook of his neck and taking several deep, calming breaths. He murmured something, something like '_enticement kills_', and his chilly breath ghosted through her thick, curly hair and over her skin, nearly making her moan. Her body language must have changed, for he grew still against her, and she knew, in the back of her mind, that she was playing with something infinitely colder than her beloved fire, something that would burn and freeze and consume...

"Take me home," she whispered, her voice huskier than she'd meant for it to be, and she could have sworn that eternally youthful body shuddered against hers before they caught a strand of the ether, riding hard and fast for the moon.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Atreus spun on one heel as he heard something move in the hallway behind him, but when he turned, nothing was there. Eyes narrowing into slits, he let his senses expand the slightest bit, sweeping the immediate area and finding it void of any other life but for his guards. Shaking his head once and dismissing it, his thoughts returned to their disjointed jumble as he laid his head against the window before him, his gaze traveling over the multitude of twinkling stars just outside as though they held the answers to all of his questions. Questions that ate at him continuously, in a never-ending cycle. The main one being '_how in the bloody hell is Luthen back?_'

He couldn't feel the taint, the evil. He _couldn't_, and it was beyond confusing.

Because in all truth, truth only a very few knew, it should have been there, glaringly obvious for all to feel. Their tale of tragic woe was worse then many could even begin to imagine, so much worse, yet Luthen walked the halls again with an achingly familiar crooked grin and eyes like stolen secrets. Still identical to Lithia in every way, but for a few minor differences that marked him as male, even his hair matched hers, sable streaked with white as bright as snow. Hair didn't typically just change as theirs' had; in fact, he could only remember it happening once before, with his cousins. Both had been caused by the same thing, though: desolate heartbreak.

Because the Crown Princes, through all the years of their lives up until the…loss of Luthen, had born three inches of scarlet at the very tips of their vibrant manes. A gift of their mother, much as the gray rings around their eyes, the dark color had made it appear as though their locks had been dipped in fresh blood until…well. Until the day they'd lost everything that mattered most to them. _What a poetic way to phrase that, Atreus, _he thought to himself bitterly. But how else to describe it? They had not lost their Thrones, no, nor even their own lives, but they had lost their happiness; they had lost what little warmth they had possessed.

And with the force of a lightning strike, remembrance hit.

_"It's a beautiful evening, is it not?" Luthen chimed from his left, mounted on a steed worthy of him, one that had a fierce temperament and eyes like a blind dragon. _

_"Good enough for a hunt," Tristan agreed somewhat lazily, scratching his own mount between the ears as they set off, having eluded their guards, which was no easy feat. _

_"Always so uninterested, dear Prince," Luthen mocked, dodging Tristan's swipe at his head and laughing. "Can you not see beauty past my sister's?"_

_"And what of your own?" The silver-haired Prince shot back, enjoying Luthen's sudden, light blush. "For I find it of equal radiance. Wouldn't you agree, brother?"_

_"Indeed," Damian drawled, his attention momentarily leaving Lithia as he smirked at her twin. "Sweet Luthen holds such beauty that even gods have been known to grow jealous. Positively stunning, if you ask me."_

_"And this," Cyan interjected dryly, "is becoming quite sickening, should you ask _me_. Are you sure that you wouldn't rather stay home and accost one another? I don't fancy being kept awake due to your moans and blissful screaming." _

_"Liar," Lithia teased, solid raven hair soaking up the last of the setting sun's rays. "I believe you'd fancy it quite a lot."_

_"I'd make you remember what I fancy, you evil wench, were that band not encircling your finger," Cyan growled as the Crown Princes spilt open a section of the wards, allowing them to pass through undetected. _

_"I'm sure she recalls such quite well, Lord McGregor," Luthen snickered. "As do the rest of us. Isn't that right, Atreus?"_

_"Do fuck off."_

_"And if I'm remembering correctly, a band encircles the fingers of you both, as well," he continued as though Atreus hadn't spoken, dark mischief dancing in his gem-bright eyes. "Now, come. We hunt and purge a bit more of the muggle filth!"_

Atreus sucked in a breath, hating the images and words trapped inside his mind. Recollection was a curse in his opinion.

_Dark clouds gathered above them, roiling through the sky as though pushed by a mighty wind, and Damian watched, entranced, while the others waved aristocratic fingers brimming with untapped magic, a makeshift, yet comfortable, camp appearing before them. They'd been hunting for two days, killing any muggles they came across and generally enjoying themselves, though Atreus wished that Arion hadn't been called away to join the Sovereigns in the Underworld as part of his tutoring. They all went time to time, and it happened to be his turn, which Atreus slightly resented. But it was necessary, they had responsibilities, after all, and he'd tell his twin all about their trip later, anyway. _

But he hadn't. How could he have? How could he have recounted such to one he so dearly loved, watching identical eyes fill with loathing and disdain?

_Screams. Screams surrounded him, though he knew not who was screaming as though their soul was being sucked free of their shell. It could be him, or it could be in his head, or…or it could be Lithia, lovely, forever lonely Lithia, who was kneeling upon the earth, face turned heavenward as she shrieked her agony to the uncaring sky. It could be Tristan, cruel, crystalline Tristan, who stared at a heart he held in his hands as though it was his eternal damnation. It could be Damian, gore-soaked, ethereal Damian, whose dagger had fallen at his feet, drenched in his love's blood. It could be Cyan, cool, controlled Cyan, who had snapped, Luthen's lifeless head cradled in his lilac-stained lap._

Shaking, Atreus cursed fate, cursed himself, cursed everything. If only…if only it had ended there.

_Flee. They had to flee. His feet flying over the trampled grass, he tried not to slip in all the blood that had spilt, he tried not to cry as understanding fully sank in and he couldn't help but acknowledge what had just occurred. He tried not to remember what had befallen them, he tried to forget what they'd been forced to do and what their actions had birthed. He tried not to lose his death grip on Lithia as he pulled her along with strength he hadn't known he possessed, and he tried not to meet her eyes, her broken, soul-torn eyes. He tried to ignore Cyan's silent inner sobbing, he tried to ignore his cousins' blank, destroyed stares. He tried to ignore the melancholic weeping of the gods, their tears falling from the clouds like acid rain. _

But he couldn't forget any of it and never would.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Melody stood by a sprawling tree whose branches seemed to graze the constellations themselves, her mind wandering from one thing to another. She'd been with Pansy most of the day, at Luthen's side and making sure that the healing was truly complete. It could have gone faster had the Sovereigns or Padma stepped in to help, but they had been strangely absent from the entire situation over the last long, tiring week. She didn't really understand why, but their motives were none of her business unless they decided to share them with her and, as of late, they hadn't. She trusted them, though, trusted them explicitly, so she hadn't questioned it.

Pansy was a different story.

Hurt, confused and slightly enraged over their aloofness, she hadn't spoken of it, but Melody knew that she felt slightly betrayed. Betrayed because they didn't seem to care that her son had returned, that he was alive and mostly well. But Melody didn't want in the middle of _that_ fight, and she had opted to say nothing while Pansy ranted. Needing an escape from yet another fuming dialogue, she'd slipped out to the gardens when Luthen had started coughing and therefore dominated all of his mother's attention. All was quiet in her little spot of peace until a rush of displaced air rustled a few loose leaves to her right.

A familiar, feminine laugh drew her attention.

"Gods, Anton, could you have gone any faster?" Blyss exclaimed, breathless from what had apparently been a very quick trip through the ether. Melody began to turn away, neither having noticed her, until Anton's tone drew her up short.

"I'm not sure, precious one. Would you like to find out?"

There was a thread of teasing laced in his smooth, addicting drawl, a thread of teasing laced with actual pleasure, and she hadn't heard him sound so _happy_ in a very long time, especially not lately. And there was something in the way he'd said it, some inflection in his voice that made a shot of tingling worry and disbelief race down her spine. She'd heard him use that tone before, but only with one very different person. A person that he was no longer speaking to, a person that he had loved unerringly for decades, a person that had turned from him and anything he had to say. A person that even Melody was a bit bitter with over her callousness with him.

But still, surely he couldn't…

"And have to spend more time with _you_?" Blyss's question was as teasing as his own and laced with something that Melody couldn't help but recognize. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ "Surely you jest, Anton!"

"Well, if you're not interested…"

"Oh, _do_ shut up. You know that I cherish our time together. Who wouldn't when you decide to bestow it, and so generously at that?"

"I could very well say the same to you, darling," he shot back, and Melody peaked around her tree only long enough to catch the expression on his sculpted face. It was so…free. So…young. _Anton? Young? _Her cynical side questioned with none too little disbelief. _When has he _ever_ been young? _

But her eyes did not lie, nor did his. Not then.

"Flattery, my dear Anton, will get you _everywhere,_" Blyss replied haughtily, and Melody sucked in a silent breath at the same time that he did. Because both, in that moment and sparked by those words, remembered another person saying the exact same thing to him years ago, when they'd been waiting for their friends to come out of Reverie after Blaise had been wounded by a Whomping Willow.

_History repeats itself_, she acknowledged, nonplussed, _but to what extent?_

"Will it now?" he crooned after a moment of tense silence, and she knew that he'd collected himself. "Then I'll have to try it more often, especially on one so deserving."

Shell-shocked and speechless, Melody had a disquieting thought.

_Something very strange is going on, and I'm almost positive that it'll lead nowhere good._

………………………………………………………………………………...

Fred, his steps like silent sentinels never warning of his approach, lightly laid a hand upon his son's shoulder, snapping the young man out of his daze and back into reality. Atreus flinched, his wild gaze meeting his father's steady one, before everything shut down within a blink of blue eyes. Emotion was wiped clean, leaving his face a blank slate, and Fred shook his head sadly. They were so wounded, so scarred, and Fred suddenly questioned it all. Hadn't he and his bonded fought and bled and very nearly died in order to give the next generation a life free of their worries and fears? A life free of torment and suffering?

And hadn't they failed in the end?

"Enough of this brooding, young one," he was saying before thinking, and his son just looked at him, as if he wished to scream that such was impossible. "If you cannot go back to…to Luthen's side yet, then come with me. There are tales you haven't heard, things none who know of them wish to relive, but I believe it is time for you to realize that you are not the only ones who have faced such hard times."

Gods, he sounded so…so serious, so old. What had happened?

_What do you think?_ he answered himself sourly. _Luthen happened._

It always seemed to come back to that now.

"What could you know of my pain?" Atreus suddenly hissed, jerking away as he never had before. "How could you possibly understand what it feels like to lose a best friend, only to regain them in such a…a painful way?" His words were meant to sting, and they did. For Fred knew more about it then he could guess.

"I know plenty," he replied with just as much venom, and Atreus looked momentarily taken aback before steeling himself once more. "Do you know, my _wise_ son, what drove Virginia to poison Lord Voldemort? Do you know what brought the Morningstar into our lives? Do you know how your mother became vampiric or how Cocidius was trapped? _Do you?_"

A crack in courtly masks. "No. I don't understand. What—"

But Fred didn't let him finish, memories of his own welling to the surface for the first time in years. "Do you know that our Sovereigns have died?" Horror flashed across his son's face, and Fred continued guilelessly. "Do you know that only the Marking gave them back to us? Do you know that my sister was nearly raped or that Draco and Blaise were ready to face the Dark Lord, and probably die, in order to keep her safe, while George and I had to stay silent about it? Do you know what befell Daphne, your love's second mother? Do you know of Pansy's trial and Anton's agony?"

"I—"

"Do you know that we had to watch and do nothing as our Kings saved us from a traitor god, sacrificing themselves in the process? Do you know that we watched them dying before being swept away by their magic? Do you know of Virginia's inconsolable lunacy and of our helplessness? Do you know of the present Dagda sent us, a box containing the corpses of our Kings?" There was that instinctual terror again, fresh on Atreus's face and old in Fred's soul. "You've heard some of it, I'm sure, tales and stories that are even now becoming myth and legend, but do you _understand_? _Can_ you? I had hoped not, we all had, but you must hear this if you hear nothing else."

Silence. And then, "And what would that be?"

"That you are not the only one to know such calamity. _That you are not alone_."

And for the first time in years, Fred saw the smallest bit of hope begin to burn in icy eyes.

Perhaps they hadn't completely failed, after all.

………………………………………………………………………………...

The Throne Room was silent but for the melodic trickling of the altar, and had anyone chanced upon it, the sight of their Kings would have startled them once they'd become aware of the two figures who sat so very still upon the dais. Both seemed to stare at nothing, silver and cerulean eyes trained on the far wall as if images played out there that only they could see. Nothing about them moved in the slightest way; their hair did not sway from perfect braids, their chests neither fell nor rose with indrawn breath, and not so much as a single blink betrayed that they were even so much as alive. Only their power, their crackling, crushing power, did that.

Until one spoke.

"Fred speaks of us." Divine, unblemished lips moved only slightly, letting a voice like velvet death creep forth and tickle over any exposed flesh that happened to be near, filling one with both unquenchable desire and inextinguishable fear.

"He remembers old days while Melody broods over the new," the other replied, and only a well-trained ear would have been able to catch the quiet, subtle difference in the tone, one so slight that only a handful could tell the two speakers apart by sound alone.

"And does she not have reason to?" the first asked wryly, his question more of a statement than anything else. "Blyss…"

"Wants what she should not be able to have," the other finished for him, as they were wont to do, their words nearly as inseparable as their thoughts.

"Her chance grows with every breath they spend together." Pale fingers wound around pale fingers, black and blue nails flashing in the dim witchlight.

"True. But he is bound and old ties are hard to break…"

"We hold the power to break them."

A hiss echoed through the chamber.

"Beloved, think of what you say…"

"I say nothing but the truth." Iron slipped into a voice already like cold steel. "And tell me that you would not, should they ask it of us. Our precious daughter and our oldest friend…"

"I would call it perfection were there not another…"

"She has forsaken him, and very nearly us. She forgets what should not be forgotten."

"The boy, he blinds her, makes her weak." A pause, weighty with decision and judgment. "We shall see. We cannot abide such weakness in our inner circle."

Silence. Stretching, sickening silence before it was shattered once more.

"Perhaps our influence here is too great. Perhaps, this once, we should leave them to it and see what decisions they make on their own."

"And who would rule in our absence this time?" A wordless, shared thought and both agreed. "Our Queen will not like it."

"But she will see the need all the same. Too many hesitate with us so near, too many are too cautious. Fate must not be hindered."

"Yes, dear one, but you have seen their options as well as I. Do you truly want them to decide on their own? You know how it could go…"

"They must. And we will watch, as always. Just from a distance."

"The Underworld is nice this time of year…"

"It's always nice." A mocking lilt, a playful growl, before seriousness so intense that it rose goose bumps along one's skin returned with a force that would forever remain unequaled by any others.

"But Pansy…"

"Do you fear she will be corrupted?" True curiosity shone forth, and sacrosanct fingers tightened in response.

"How could I not? Look what we've allowed into the Palace."

A cold laugh echoed over marble, icing the walls but for where the witchlight burned, before slowly eating away at even that scorching heat in a dangerous, deadly display of how their power had grown so great that even such a small, unconscious gesture could let loose the elements held within them in fatal ways. It was fortunate for their subjects that they always held such furious control when in the presence of anyone weaker than themselves or a god, or many would have died when they otherwise wouldn't have. For the Sovereigns were slowly becoming what they controlled, slowly becoming pure magic, pure energy and divinity.

And one day, centuries or even eons from the present, they would fully become what lived inside them, abandoning their human wrappings for the wild, free side of them that they almost always so carefully hid. Their heirs were not being trained so fully without cause. Because on that day, the day they started their eternal guardianship of Terra in different forms, their children would rise to full power, Damian becoming the Thunder King, Tristan the Ice King, and Blyss the Queen of Flame. It was a long ways off if the future went one of the ways they hoped, and would be much longer should any of their children fall.

That laugh again, from nearly identical vocal chords, and the witchlight spluttered out.

"It's all destiny, darling. Just theirs this time instead of ours."

………………………………………………………………………………...


	7. Hazel Hell

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

**Review Responses: tkmoore** - as always, you are the supreme queen of my fucked up universe and I adore thee. kisses **BlueJeanJunkie** - yes, I'm fine now, lol. and you are still greatly cherished by this poor, review-hungry author. /pounces you/ **Sunday-Morning** - /kisses your cheek/…/kisses your feet/…/builds an altar in your honor/…lol, love you! **Wicked Not Evil** - /sobs/ I've missed you and your glorious reviews so much/whimpers and tackles you, showering you in praise/** Deadly Toxic - **oooh, I adored your review! mad thanks!** afici0nada** -/bows/ positively lovely responses. thank you. /sits at your feet and waits for more review-crack/ **babykelyse - **thank you! your heart sighed, huh? lol, i'm honored. **otaku sae - **ya, whateva, lol. you know you wanna know. curiosity killed the sae and whatnot. lmao. love ya! **sillysun - **it's good to be back! and thanks! **Mago - **learned a lesson, indeed. and many thanks! **Fire and Ice 4ever - **YOU'RE WELCOME YOU'RE WELCOME YOU'RE WELCOME…/huggles you/ **Jen -** you almost fainted? i feel so special. :P **Icetor** - thanks! **ali - **so when's the wedding? **Fogless Immunity** - many thanks, and I appreciate you supporting my weird pairings, lol. **Tyanne** - you'll just have to wait and see/cackles/ **rubylight21** - thank you! **Descension** - yes, _jail_. /sighs/ stupid boys. and you can ask away, lol. doesn't bother me. and thanks! **Sachedey - **thanks, and you should if all goes well. **WhiteCabbit** - sorry, can't spoil anything for you, but I adored the review! **Maltese -** I might, I've considered it. and many thanks! **Africanflame** - thanks a bunch, that's what I live for! **kitten - **thank you! **Fireroses** - a rose for the firerose, my dear. thank you for the review! **mischievousmarauder** - glad to know it's making more sense, and thanks! **Lynnie** - sorry for the confusion, and thank you!

Now, to continue…

--------------------------------------------

"Anton, you _must_ listen—"

His step-aunt's voice drew Cyan up short, and he halted in his lazy path through the twisting hallways of the Palace, loving, rather than despising or ignoring, the winter chill in that area. Curious, he stepped towards the door that stood slightly cracked to his left, his footfalls as silent as if he walked upon air, which he very nearly did. He couldn't see through the minute space provided, so he let his senses stretch out and sneak in, probing the area and giving him as much information as sight would have done. His father stood stiffly, fury radiating off him so thickly that Cyan was surprised he hadn't felt it earlier, until he realized that Anton was shielding.

"I will listen to nothing from _your_ lips, Daughter of the Dawn!" his father spat, cutting Lycelle off mid-sentence and causing her to suck in a breath.

"Look, I am only saying that you're not thinking clearly!" She gathered herself together after a moment, and her voice was strained, as if she felt actual physical pain. "Others have begun to notice, brother, and—"

"I am no brother of yours," Anton hissed, and Cyan froze. Since when had his father so strongly disliked Pansy's sister? He'd always been distant towards her, but that was to be expected, considering the very different deities they served. But now there was loathing in his father's tone, even hate, and Cyan's curiosity grew until it was on an almost morbid level.

All was quiet. Then, "Fine. But know that I understand. I understand that you may think that you're acting rationally, but you are _not_. I understand that you're confused and hurt, that my sister's rejection stings. But you cannot give up on her, on your marriage—"

"I have given up on _nothing_. She has turned on me, not the other way around, if you care to recall." How could a voice be so cold, so utterly uncaring, when speaking of their bonded? It was a trick that Cyan wished to learn.

"She…" Lycelle's voice wavered before growing strong once more. "She is blinded by his presence. But she will see through it eventually, she will remember your love."

"Yes, well, perhaps I do not wish to wait for someone who could so easily forget, have you considered that?" Anton asked dryly, and there was a small shuffle, as if Lycelle had taken a quick step back from him. "Perhaps she is a different person than originally thought, after all." A pause, full of weighty consideration. "Or maybe, she is simply weak."

"_Anton!_"

Lycelle protested exactly when Cyan felt like doing the same. Pansy? Weak? Surely not…

"She is blind, White One, even where you are not," Anton replied silkily. "Or shall you call me a liar?"

"I—no. I will not call you that." Lycelle's voice grew wispier as Anton's became ever more forceful.

"Oh, then shall you call me heartless again, as you did once before?"

Cyan froze. Lycelle had done _what_? That prissy fucking _bitch_…

"Anton, about that, you know how sorry I am, how much I regret—"

"_Silence_." And suddenly, his father spoke with a voice full of dark divinity and Lycelle's mouth snapped closed, before she dropped to her knees in a rustle of fine silk. "I am tired of your rambling and even wearier of your ceaseless interference where it is certainly not welcome. You know nothing of me or of my thoughts and life, and the day I take council from a light witch will be a sad day indeed. Leave me and do not seek me out again. You are dismissed."

"As you wish, my lord," came the humble, terrified reply.

Another rustle of silk announced Lycelle rising, then rushing for the door, Anton's ire like a rising tide chasing her from his sight. Cyan slid easily into the shadows, and waited much like a vampire of old in a dark alley, waiting for its prey to emerge. They no longer had to do so, of course, as most wizards and witches were readily willing to feed them, but the sentiment was not lost on the young man. Nor was it lost on Lycelle when she practically flew out of the doorway and almost instantly found herself caught around the waist and pulled back into one of the countless transportation portals situated all over the grounds.

"Release me at once!" she demanded when they came out in a rarely used section of one of the westward wings, before spinning and growing very quiet and still when she saw who held her. A malicious smirk spread across Cyan's face as he yanked her into a shadowy nook, slamming her none-too-gently into the back wall and snarling.

"What did you say to my father, Whore of the Light?" he demanded, using an insulting title that few would dare to think, let alone utter, even when alone in the relative safety of their own room. Her master, the Dawn Star, was a prideful being, and vengeful in Her own way.

But Cyan did not fear Her or Her disciple. Let the White Lady glower in Her sunlit halls. He cared not.

"I…" Lycelle started with wide eyes, before the Mark on her arm flared angrily and she drew herself up. "I do not answer to _you_, Son of Dark Ones."

"Yes," he said slowly, calmly, trying not to lash out at her, "you do." And something crept into his voice, something that made his step-aunt's gaze turn suspicious and then credulous, before to his surprise, she answered without any more argument.

"I told him once, long ago, that he was only using our Kings for their positions and power. That he didn't truly love them or my sister, and that he thought only of himself and his own well-being. I have damned those words ever since they spilled from my lips."

True sorrow crossed her aging face, but Cyan couldn't have been less affected by it. How _dare_ she? How dare she mock his father's sacrifices in such a callous way? He knew better than most how much sanity his father had lost in filtering and absorbing the festering sickness and hate that had been bred into their Kings; how much he had given up in order to make sure that they could continue to sit upon their Thrones and rule without being corrupted by their past or going utterly mad because of it. He knew how his father had done so years before they ever came into Sovereignty, years before it was even a thought in the Dark Lady's mind.

And she had dared to discredit such loyalty and devotion? Pay, she was going to _pay_…

"Run, Chosen of Aurora, run before you no longer have legs upon which to do so," he hissed, while something odd built inside of him, almost spilling over and engulfing him, but not quite, not yet.

He had no time to think on it though, because the urge to rip out her tongue grew stronger by the second, and as she looked up, meeting his burning cold eyes, she knew it. The Mark on her arm responded, blazing bright enough to blind, and when he should have had to hide his eyes from the brilliance of it, he did not. Something in him was changing, morphing as he moved for her, and the shocked expression upon her face was utterly priceless. A ball of darkfire built quicker than it ever had before in his cupped hand, and he slammed it into her cheek with all the force his rage could muster. A pearly shield snapped up just in time around her, causing the two opposing forces to collide.

And explode.

Both were blown backwards, her _into_ the wall almost a foot and a half and him out in the dimly lit hallway, stone littering around them like charred pieces of solid rain. He was on his feet again after a second of disorientation, a knife in hand and a murderous purpose. They did not call the Dark Royals vicious without reason. Such an insult to his sire demanded to be avenged, and her blood would spill for such treasonous words. Why she hadn't been punished before now was an infuriating mystery, one he resolved to unravel at his earliest convenience. But all he could focus on at the moment was her rising form, her growing power.

She no longer seemed virtuous and innocent, her gentle aura displaced by her Lady's fury, her hair flying around her in a brown swirl of energy, moved by it rather than by any form of wind. Her pale skin very nearly crackled, and her eyes were turning from amber to a bright white-blue like those of a husky going blind. Cyan felt his own power growing in an effort to match hers, and though he knew he would lose this fight in the end, since she was backed by a deity where he was not, he resolved to see her skin split open before he fell, to see the liquid of her life run over cold stone. Black energy built within his core, destructive and very, very deadly.

She was no immortal.

No, she had refused that gift like an utter fool, and it could very well now be her downfall. His power streamed out, rushing through veins that pumped blood older than the pyramids, until it burst forth from his skin and surrounded him in a ferocious halo of pure darkness. Something had changed, he knew it by the sheer strength of the power pouring from him, and so did she. The first glimmer of wary fear sparked in those heaven-filled eyes, and he used her momentary distraction to his advantage, attacking in a fluid movement so quick he could barely believe it himself. The Crown Princes could move like that, his father could move like that, but…

No matter. His blade had sunk deeply into her abdomen, slicing past her shields and muscle alike, and one glowing white hand swiped at his face, claws raking through the skin and pushing that damnable light past his own defenses until he reared back, fearing a tainting of his beloved blood. It _stung_, gods how it stung, and he growled, deep and low, before starting another rushing attack that was never completed. Because immeasurably strong hands were suddenly pulling him back, and as soon as they touched him, he felt instantly calmer, instantly relaxed, as though the fight were truly over and his opponent dead and cooling on the floor.

And that alone let him know it could only be one of four people.

Surely, Padma wasn't stupid enough to touch him, not after their little discussion the other night, so that ruled her out immediately. Besides, even she didn't hold the level of supremacy and majesty flowing from the being behind him. Even she couldn't so instantly drain the rage of a Royal as though it were no harder a thing to do than swiping away an errant lock of hair. Even she didn't have fingernails that looked for all the world like precious gemstones. Even she couldn't make him feel like abasing himself at her feet after only catching the barest glimpse of the curve of her hand where it met one elegant, bone-white wrist. No, it was certainly not Padma.

"Indeed not, sweet Prince."

A voice like the sweetest sap crooned next to his ear, drizzling into his brain as a light mist would and coating all it touched with something beyond love, something beyond devotion or desire. Every muscle in his body released his built-up tension without any conscious or subconscious thought from him, and he melted into his Queen's embrace without the slightest form of protest. Safe in her arms, eternally safe, he knew instinctively that she meant him no harm and most likely never would, for he, like his father, was highly cherished by her. One divine hand uncurled from his bicep, winding itself into his long hair, while the other loosened and gave a loving caress.

"And what has the ethical one done to so displease you?" Virginia purred as he turned to nuzzle her neck, to breathe in her celestial scent. His answer was clear, if slightly muffled, and he felt her thrumming anger rise as he spoke.

"I have learned, dearest Aunt, from her own lips no less, that she once called my father heartless, that she belittled his sacrifices and scorned his love for the Kings, saying that he loved none but himself."

The silence burned before the Queen broke it.

"Really." It was not a question, so he didn't bother with a useless affirmation. He simply lifted his head and looked at his step-aunt, who was trembling by then and cowering into the wall, her fear not helped when the Queen's malicious eyes rose to lock onto her as if she were no more than some disgusting new species of insect. "Is this true, Dawn Beauty?"

"Y-yes, your majesty, but I—"

"Silence." Those eyes turned back to him, softening as they traced over his features, before growing as hard and cold as marble as they once more went back to Lycelle. Cyan, his ire returning, let his hissing voice fill the deceptive quiet.

"A debt is owed to my line for such words," he said silkily, the stink of primal fright intensifying as his step-aunt fully digested what he was saying, what he was implying. "One my father has not claimed, probably out of respect and regard for his lady wife. But I have no such restrictions or obligations holding me back, and as a direct descendant of his, I am calling in what he could not."

"And what price," his Sovereign asked with a touch of mocking laughter, "would you have the bitch pay?"

A million plans ran behind his eyes, thought over and discarded before one pushed itself to the forefront, and a tinge of mad delight trickled into his own tone. "A duel," he replied malevolently, and the Queen cocked an eyebrow most eloquently.

"A duel?" she queried with a bit of interest, her quiet amusement thickening. "A duel with whom?"

"Me," he said after a moment of stillness, and his Queen no longer laughed.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Blyss tread noiselessly into a large, familiar room, one she'd known in her earliest true memories, as though she were an invader. Which she was, in a way, as she had not been invited, though typically she had a permanent invitation. But these were strange times, and nothing was as certain as it had once been. So she kept her silence, or at least, she did until she saw a very rare sight indeed, one that sent chills down her spine and fear needling into her heart. For Tristan sat alone in the center of the lavish room, silver hair tightly braided into a thousand satiny plaits, the cushion he lounged upon as green as his loves' eyes, his own as empty as sin.

But that wasn't what scared her. She was used to that. No, it was that he was _alone_, utterly alone.

Where was Damian?

Disquiet settled heavily within her, for neither was ever far apart, certainly not out of sensing range. But she couldn't feel her other brother anywhere close by, and it unsettled her greatly. Because if they'd been nigh inseparable before, they were triply so these days. _Surely_, her mind hissed its most dreaded suspicion, _surely, they have not begun to split as Arion and Atreus have. Such is not possible…is it? _But if it wasn't, then where was his twin? Where was her dark brother with his sable hair of deepest night, with his unfathomable, dangerous eyes? Where was the contrast to all of Tristan's glistening radiance? And why, _why_, had he left Tristan's side _now_?

"Come closer, sister," Tristan's voice startled her something horrible, though it shouldn't have. Her nerves had certainly been frayed over the past two weeks since 'Luthen' had returned. "It's not as if I haven't felt your sneaking since you entered the wing."

"I meant no offense, brother," she said neutrally but truthfully, gliding over to him and kneeling before the cushion, which seemed to enfold him like a lover. "I wished to see how you and Damian fare."

"As well as ever, I suppose," he answered, not taking her bait and therefore not mentioning his twin as she had. "Much has changed."

"Yes," she agreed, trying to decide how best to press her case, before she suddenly decided, as though with a whim, on blunt honesty. "Brother…I fear for you."

Tristan's mercury gaze showed no curiosity, but at least he looked at her.

"I fear…I fear that you, too, will be corrupted."

He sneered. "And why do you say 'too', _dear_ sister?"

She was walking treacherous, lethal ground. She did not wish to fight him. Only to make him listen, if he was even capable of it considering the topic she had chosen. "Because that…that _creature_…that—"

He hissed, and she schooled her tongue to greater diplomacy. Perhaps she'd do better not to be _too_ blunt. "Watch your words, Flame Heir."

Titles. He was using _titles_ with _her_. Bloody hell. Maybe this _hadn't_ been such a great idea.

But she trudged forward anyway. "That—that is not Luthen!" Her voice rose uncontrollably as she stood, passion and conviction evident in every syllable, in every wild gesture that was so unlike her. "And if it _is_, if some part of my beloved sworn-cousin remains, then he is buried so far under defiled filth that I cannot even express my sorrow of it! All he does, Prince of Ice, is try and wheedle his way back into your hearts, _acting_ as if it is truly him, unchanged and unchangeable! But you, dear Waveslicer, you have not seen him like those of us who watch have; you have not seen his eyes at times, as I, and even his own father, have! You haven't seen—"

"I have seen _plenty_, Blazedancer!" Such fury, such insurmountable, unstoppable fury, before she watched, amazed, as it all washed away and his eyes grew blank and…tired.

"T-Tristan?" she called to him softly after a moment of his motionless reverie, and he blinked once, twice, before resettling his eerily empty gaze on her once more.

"What?"

"I…you…"

"I know, sweet sister, I know." Lucidity reigned in his tone, lucidity and a disturbing sense of twisted tranquility, and she mentally gaped. Anger she'd been prepared for, even anger such as his could be. But this quiet calmness, this resigned lack of any emotion at all, she had _not_ readied herself for, because she had not known that it existed in this feral, wild being before her.

And perhaps, two weeks ago, it hadn't.

"You thought us mad for years now, you all did," he continued as if this were just another conversation about broomsticks or cauldron quality. "You thought us raving lunatics, and maybe we were, maybe we _are_."

She took hope in his casual, ingrained use of the word 'we'.

"But we are not so mad as to not see what we cannot, however bottomless our love, deny. We are not so mad as to think that all is now well, or that our world has righted itself, returning to normal. We are not so mad as to have forgotten…" he trailed off, shivering the slightest bit, and she knew better than any that it was no cold draft that made one immune to such do so.

"Forgotten what, precious one?" she asked somewhat timidly, wondering if he would finally take her back into his full confidence and reveal whatever brutal memories haunted him so viciously. And for a moment, that wish soared, for his eyes were foggy and glassed over with things she didn't understand, and she knew that he was not altogether there with her, but somewhere else entirely.

It made him more careless with his words then he'd ever been before.

"The way his blood looked so beautiful, even as I knew he was dying," Tristan intoned like one who was reciting lines from a book, his tone dead and void of feeling. But his eyes…those were growing grayer, as if stormy clouds blew through them, obscuring more than just his vision, darkening more than just his moonlit irises. "The feeling of it rushing down my throat, across my skin, the sight of it gathering on the ground in a pool of fallen lilac glory. Lithia's screams, for she wailed and wailed as if the universe were falling down around her, crushing all she knew in one fatal swipe. Cyan's tears, the first I'd ever seen him shed, bloody, grieving diamonds…"

He sucked in a breath, his nails digging into his palms with force enough to snap a sickle in half.

"Damian's blades stained purple, liquid lavender running down them in never-ending torrents, before his rage cooled and realization set in. His face as he acknowledged that all was lost, that though we had done what we must in order to keep our family safe, our people safe, that though we had done our duty to the gods and to Luthen's own soul, we would never see his smile again, never hear him laugh or feel him writhing wantonly underneath us again. All guilty, _we were all guilty_, and because of us, he met his death on our blades and fangs and claws, dying in our arms as we wept for what could not be changed, even by us."

There was a lengthy pause as her eyes filled with horror, horror she could not hide from him, and he saw it, saw it and laughed, a cold, wrenching sound that broke her heart all over again as he continued.

"So yes, I am fully aware that what resides in this Palace cannot be Luthen, at least not the Luthen we knew. For you see, sweet Blyss, we murdered him."

………………………………………………………………………………...

Blaise, King of Air, Lightning and all the world, did not pause as servants scurried out of his way, their respect and awe creating a nearly tangible aura in the large hallway through which he stalked, his movements lazy but purposeful. Robes the color of old, rich wine hugged his chest and waist, before billowing at the sleeves and flowing around his graphorn-hide boots. Several rings would have flashed on his slender, yet immeasurably strong, fingers, rings of power, prestige and station that themselves alone would have made him feared and treated with infinite caution, had those sleeves not draped over his black-nailed hands.

But there was more to him than such trinkets, however pretty and deadly they happened to be.

And none doubted that, not a single one, for he had proven it numerous times. So many times, in fact, that even had he not radiated such a sense of omnipotent perfection, he would never need to do so again. He and his bonded were so revered by their people that a custom had begun decades ago, one they favored but had not started. No, the people themselves had petitioned them for it, petitioned them for the honor of bringing any newborns before them for that wanted, but not entirely needed, first glimpse of them. The glimpse that tied any with magic in their veins to them irrevocably, the glimpse that cemented alliances and birthed true loyalty.

Only those with an enemy god's patronage might resist it, might resist _them_, but there were few, if any, of those left. No, theirs and their god's dominion was unquestioned and unchallenged, known by all as something that was simply _right_. And those infants — so many that they'd begun to be brought en masse once a week — those infants with their wide, innocent eyes and flushed skin, with their delicate frames and their budding curiosity, even they knew, even they felt it, especially the pure ones. Indeed, those had been known to burst into joyful tears much as many adults still did, crying and fighting so ardently when they were taken away that they had to be subdued.

"Uncle." A familiar, refined voice had him slowing to a halt and acknowledging the well-known figure kneeling a few feet ahead of him on the chilly marble.

"Rise, Madison." He said after a moment, and he saw the young one's skin quiver as his voice trailed over it like a damning caress.

Blond hair held in a queue and black eyes flashing, he did so before embracing Blaise lightly and laying silky lips on his King's even silkier cheek. Blaise ran smooth fingers down his long braid and across his back, enjoying the tremors such an action caused in the normally un-faze-able wizard. Madison's lips parted, warm breath rushing out and whispering along Blaise's flesh, and sometimes such things made him wonder if he and his bonded had spoken too rashly when they'd said they wouldn't take another to their bed. Madison was tempting, too tempting at times, his cold cruelty and wickedly sharp tongue enough to make anyone pause and consider, even a demigod.

As if he could sense the change in his King's mood, Madison let his head fall onto Blaise's shoulder, his face rubbing against the High Royal's neck in a gesture of sincere affection that very few were allowed to perform. Nearly purring with ecstatic glee when he was not gently pushed away after a minute or so, he pressed his lean, muscled body flush against Blaise's own. _That_ was a movement many would hurt or die for, one allowed to even fewer people, but Madison knew that he was favored, knew that he was allowed certain liberties, and knew, in that moment, that the action was not unwelcome in the slightest.

It was only when his desire became all too apparent that Blaise slid away.

"Forgive me." Madison breathed throatily, eyes glazed with lust and love, with darker things besides, falling to his knees again in an appeal for mercy that he would only grant his Sovereigns or their heirs.

He was shaking ever so slightly, his control cracking with the force of emotions his King had unleashed within him with nothing more than acceptance of so slight a touch, and there was the smallest spark of true fear in those onyx eyes, fear of what those hallowed hands and luscious lips could do should they ever truly claim him. And Blaise, because he did commend the one before him, this unlikely child of Sebastian and his own cousin, Mira, this beatific creature whose blood ties to him were just slight enough to make him contemplate what hid underneath those navy robes, held out a single, graceful hand.

As soon as Madison's skin met his again, he made his decision. It was unfair to leave one so deserving so very unsatisfied, and as he could not just whisk him away to some empty room and ravish him, he could think of only one other thing that might appropriately show his high regard for one who had been somewhat of a miracle. Madison came from a marriage that none had dreamed of after Mira's split from Vincent, after Gregory's betrayal of them both, but Sebastian had picked up the pieces of her life and fit them back together as even he and his bonded had not been able to do. And Madison was the fruit of their bonding, blending their perfections into one.

That alone would have made his decision, for Sebastian had always been among the loyalist of the loyal, Anton's right hand just as Anton was Blaise and Draco's. He had fought for them, nearly died for them several times, and he, too, had siphoned off their ever-growing madness, taking much of it into himself. And Mira had always been dear to Blaise, as had her mother, and any child of hers would be welcomed by him unless they proved they were not worth that welcome, which he severely doubted would ever be the case should she choose to bear more children. So yes, he more than likely would have offered such a gift anyway.

But it didn't hurt that he loved the black-eyed hellion.

"Drink." He half-invited, half-commanded, and smirked as Madison's shadowed eyes widened the barest bit, understanding all to well what Blaise meant, understanding all too well what was offered.

The King's hand tightened around his, nails digging in just this side of breaking skin, and that glazed look came back full-force. Madison began to kneel once more, his delectable mouth going for Blaise's wrist, but that was refused him and confusion sped briefly across those sculpted features. Keeping his hold on the younger wizard's hand, Blaise lifted his other and swept back his long raven hair, revealing a throat paler than the moon could dream of being. The faintest bluish-purple traces could be seen, veins holding blood that many would die to so much as taste, and Madison gazed at him questioningly, for the honor seemed too great.

To drink from the King's wrist was one thing, exalted and cherished, but to drink straight from his throat…many would not only die for it, they would willingly let themselves be damned for an eternity. And as he saw that Blaise was serious, that this was not a jest or a test, that it was not some teasing amusement, awe filled eyes that were usually as blank as a starless night sky. Slowly, so slowly, as if he feared that sudden movement would wake him as though this were but a dream, Madison leaned forward, his body molding against his King's once more, his hands going to regal hips and clutching them softly, as if they were no more than robed glass.

Blaise resisted the urge to snicker, not wanting to startle one whose fantasies were so near completion. Well, _some_ of his fantasies, anyway. But this uncharacteristic genteelness was quite ridiculous to part of him, while the other part chided him for such a thought. This was to Madison as drinking from Cocidius or Lucifer or Hades was to him, and he well knew the apprehension and veneration the young one felt. So he waited as patiently as he could, before that patience wore thin and a mere thought split that main vein as neatly as a razor-sharp blade. And as soon as his blood spilled from it like a violaceous intoxicant, Madison lost his mind.

Quite literally.

Lips were suddenly attached to that bleeding wound, a skilled tongue caressing his skin, cat-like in its dexterity yet much softer and feeling of silk, while those oh-so-careful fingers dug in with enough pressure that they would have shattered the bones of anyone but a Royal, and bruised even them. But Blaise was not simply a Royal, he was King, and they would leave no mark upon his skin unless he willed it. And at that moment, he did. Few realized that he and his bonded got almost as much pleasure from giving blood as those who received it did, and every nerve in his body came to alert attention. His own hands rose to let loose that golden braid, delighting in the spill of hair that was his reward.

His fingers tangled in those streaming locks, pulling Madison closer and daring him to set teeth into majestic skin, and the other did so, instinctively knowing what his King wanted with that blood currently rushing into him and overriding all of his senses like a celestial tsunami. Blaise suddenly found his back against one wall and hips grinding into his own, and it was still chaste enough that he formed no protest, but let Madison have his moment even as he was having his own. Colors began swirling before his eyes, the colors of a thousand different stars, and when he let them flutter shut, those colors exploded into such vivid brilliance that a lesser being would have wept to see them.

And then came the moment, the crucial moment.

'_Pull back, treasured one,_' Blaise called through their new link, but Madison's mouth didn't cease in its ministrations.

'_Must I?_' he very nearly pleaded, even as ever more blood slid into him, changing, changing…

'_You risk vampirism if you do not,_' Blaise replied somewhat foggily, knowing that none of the Royal children had yet chosen such a form of immortality, not even his own. But Madison did not pull back, and his choice, then, was as clear to his King as if he'd screamed it aloud for all to hear. '_Are you sure; are you positive? You cannot later change your mind._'

'_I will not wish to,_' Madison answered with what little sentience he had left. '_Long have I known my chosen path, even as most of the others do. But they hesitate where I will not._'

He did not have to say that the Crown Princes would have already done so if the Luthen incident had not happened when it had. All knew that, or at least guessed at it. But Madison had decided, and Blaise would honor that decision. Suddenly pushing power in behind his blood, more and more and more until Madison was silently screaming in his mind, he allowed instinct to rule them both. Neither noticed the humble, quiet, envious gazes of the frozen servants, neither noticed the still form of Mira at the hallway's end, and neither noticed four of the Ezutîël creep closer, having been drawn from hiding by the maddening scent of their King's spilled blood.

He felt the moment it became too much, the moment when even Madison's Royal form couldn't hold any more of Blaise's energy then it was already, and he pulled on his control as Madison's lips finally left his throat. His vision cleared instantly at his slightest command, and he watched as Madison stumbled, more ungraceful then he'd ever been, into the opposite wall. Those obsidian eyes were wide and utterly wild, the whites as purple as the blood staining his lips, as one convulsion after another racked his lean frame. Low laughter spilled from Blaise, low, delighted laughter, for he had not beheld a Royal being so changed since Charlie had accepted the Blood.

The wound on his throat long-healed, he didn't turn away for an instant, seeing all as Madison's hair took on an even more luxurious sheen, as his irises somehow became ever darker, as small, dainty, deadly fangs made themselves visible when Madison's stained lips parted in a scream. Half-ecstasy, half-soul wrenching pain, that glorious sound was soon followed by another and another as the Royal's body all but completely died, Blaise having made sure to twist the magic enough to keep a small fraction alive, enough to let him walk in the sun. Then Madison slowly began to fall, suddenly clawed hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick marble wall.

And his King was at his side in an instant, still mirthful and slightly high.

It had been too long, Blaise decided, too long since he had turned another, and he had forgotten the rush such an action gave (as long as you weren't too exhausted or near-death to feel it). The young Slytherin's weight was nothing to him, as light as a phoenix feather would be to most, and he sent calming energy into the shaking, twisting, writhing wizard, Madison's very bones and blood responding instinctively to his touch. Slowly, the convulsions died away, muscles stronger than they had ever been going limp, and Blaise smirked as obsidian eyes drifted open and gazed upon him with such rapturous devotion that another small part of the cracked sickness in his soul closed over and healed.

"My lord," Madison breathed reverently when he could speak, unable to control his emotions for once in his now-immortal life, "my savior, my creator, my King…"

"Hush, dear one. You will need blood again soon," Blaise said softly, meaning to silence this outpouring, as he was now more than aware of the watching eyes all around them. But Madison would not be silenced, and oaths spilled from his blood-streaked lips.

"Forever shall I serve you, forever shall I call you 'Master', forever shall I be willing and ready to give this newfound life for you and yours." Black eyes hardened, grew as strong and clear as they always were, before the fledgling was kneeling more sincerely than he had ever done so before. "You are greater than even those who are closest to you believed; I know this for I saw it, saw it as I drank from a fount purer than any save your loves'. You have my heart, King of Air, you have it because you've stolen it, and I do not even wish for it back. You have gained an acolyte this eve, and I swear, before Ares and all the gods, that I am yours to command for all of eternity."

And so a child of the Royals became a child of the Night, not to mention an infinitely trusted advocate and ally to a King that had birthed legends.

Mira's howl of triumph seemed to echo endlessly.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Sahirah, the second born daughter of Lycelle and Marcello, sighed heavily as she brushed a lock of her dark brown hair from her eyes. Arion was supposed to have met her here nearly an hour before, and the gardens grew cold as she waited. Idly fingering the petals of a snapdragon, she wondered if he was even coming, or if she would be smarter to abandon the rows and rows of flowers and trees and find warmth within her rooms. The seasons were switching tonight, and what had been autumn was quickly becoming winter in this area of the Palace. And while many of her cousins adored the cold, more at home in it than not, she wasn't one of them.

Deciding to give him another ten minutes and no longer, she gazed longingly up at the never-ending stars, wishing that she could reach out and touch them, that she could escape the reality she continuously found herself in. Everything was too dark for her here, too depressed and viscous, and she simply couldn't wait to go back to school and be among her own kind once more. Not that she didn't love her family; she did. But they were almost of a different species, so dangerous and deadly, and she wasn't like them. She knew how her mother must have felt when she was her age, but Sahirah _did_ have one advantage where her mother had not.

At least she wasn't stuck in Slytherin.

"Shit, Sahirah, I didn't mean to take so long, but—Sahirah?" She heard Arion rush up, his voice breathy as if he'd run the whole way there, and she turned her chocolate-colored eyes from the heavens to smile at him.

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he said, staring at her oddly. "You just seemed a million miles away, is all."

"Oh. Well, I was just thinking." Tilting her head to the side, she studied him. His rosewood hair was coming loose from its braids in wisps, his robes were crooked and sporting small rips and tears, and his bright blue eyes were slightly unfocused. _Which means_, she thought, exasperated, _that he was doing one of two things. Fighting or fucking. _"What kept you?"

"Atreus."

Fighting, then. No wonder he didn't look very happy.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, all too aware of the problems between him and his twin.

"Don't be," Arion insisted, though the sentiment didn't reach his eyes. Sitting beside her gracefully, he tried to laugh and failed miserably. Leaning into him and wrapping one arm around his waist, she only noticed he was bleeding when her hand rested on his side in something warm and sticky.

"Arion!" Moving quickly, she slid around him before he could protest and ripped the velvet of his robes open carelessly, not giving a damn about the fabric. It wasn't as though he didn't have a thousand more sets just like them. The large hole revealed the wound, and she sucked in a breath when she saw just how deep it was, not at all like the smaller scratches. "What on earth _happened_? _Atreus_ did this?"

Arion grimaced. "I shouldn't have pushed him to tell me again," was all that he said, and she knew what he spoke of, though she wished she didn't. Carefully prodding the cut, she concluded that it had been made from a knife or short sword quite quickly. Ripping the hem of her own robes deftly, she covered the wound and spelled the cloth to stay with her wand before rising and pulling him up with her.

"Come on, we've got to get you to a healer."

He didn't argue, which let her know just how out of it he was, and she cursed fate with every step as she led him back into the Palace. Servants stared at them oddly as they passed, but none dared to interfere, for which she was glad. A sense of divinity washed over them as they swept past one hallway, and she nearly stopped to beg the assistance of whichever Sovereign it happened to be, but a glance at the interlocked forms of her King and Madison was more than enough for her to seek out someone else. Heading for the Healer's Wing, she didn't like the fact that Arion was already bleeding through her makeshift bandage.

And then, a stroke of luck.

She spotted a familiar form not too far ahead, her uncle leaning against one wall, whispering in someone's ear, his hair short today and barely reaching past his sculpted chin. Murmured words barely reached their ears before feminine laughter trailed towards them over stone, and Sahirah slowed slightly, recognizing that second voice. Remembered rumors replayed in her mind, rumors that had been sweeping the Palace for days now, and she started to shake them off as she'd been doing until she saw her uncle begin to turn away, only to be stopped by a pale, slender arm and another, huskier laugh. Elegant fingers pulled him closer, the laughter died, and—

"Uncle!" The summons was out of her mouth before she could think, and as the two figures slid apart, Sahirah wondered if the urgency in her voice was all for Arion, or for what had nearly just occurred before her very eyes.

"Oh gods," Arion breathed, gaze locked on what he, too, couldn't seem to believe. Both watched avidly as Anton turned towards them, a smirk coiling across his full lips, while his eyes held the strangest glimmer they had ever seen. Blyss was revealed as he moved, her fire-bright hair corkscrewing around her to her slim waist and her mismatched irises alive with something so feral that neither Sahirah nor Arion could seem to look away.

"What is it?" Anton asked lightly, apparently completely unaffected by their presence. But then again, what did he have to fear? Bound he may be, and to her aunt no less, but he was the jewel of the kingdom. And Sahirah knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if anyone could get away with almost kissing the Sovereigns' only daughter, it was their oldest, dearest friend. Knowing that, though, certainly didn't make any of this any less confusing or fucked up.

"I…he…" she started, only to be stopped by Anton sniffing the air. Glad she wouldn't need to explain as his eyes drifted to Arion, she moved away when he came closer. Arion still stared, and continued doing so even as Anton removed the wad of cloth and laid gentle fingers on the wound.

"Atreus should be more careful," Anton intoned neutrally as Blyss glided over to her cousin's side, taking Arion's hand in her own and smiling softly. "He very nearly got an organ. You are lucky he did not."

But Arion wasn't, for once, thinking of his twin. "What—what in the bloody fuck were you _doing_?" he demanded as Anton began carefully closing the wound, and when he saw that he was being ignored on that front, he glared over at his cousin. "Well?"

"We weren't _doing_ anything," Blyss stated haughtily, and a fine layer of frost seemed to settle over those captivating eyes.

"The hell you weren't!" Arion hissed, while Anton's smirk grew and the bleeding stopped, the skin closing and any trace of a scar fading. "What of Pansy, Blyss? What of oaths older than either of us?"

Anton's smirk disappeared in an instant and Blyss snarled.

"You know nothing!" she snapped, and Anton rose so fluidly and quickly that none saw him move. "What of twin-bonds that should be unbreakable, dear cousin? What of a sibling's love that should have made such a wound impossible? Who are you to point fingers and accuse?"

Arion paled, his eyes growing dull and sightless, before words spilled from him in a cold river of mourning.

"No one. I am no one, sweet cousin, but at least I do not dabble where I should not. At least I do not try to break a bond that has strengthened our kingdom as much as theirs has. At least I do not play with one whom all know is much too mad and malicious for such games to be safe. At least I know my place, as you no longer seem to!"

"You do not dabble where you shouldn't?" Blyss mocked, releasing his hand and stepping back as though it had burnt her, which was ludicrous. "Then what do you call harassing Atreus over that which he is not yet ready to reveal? Have you ever considered that he might be trying to protect you, to shield you from such horror? And I try to break nothing that is not already broken, nothing that has not already shattered at our aunt's feet of her own accord! Would you keep him chained to her, to one who can no longer see past her own delusions, just to keep the kingdom strong?"

So angry, she was so _angry_, and Sahirah stumbled into the wall as flames began dancing in those now-malevolent eyes.

"His love means more to me than any such thing, especially when my parents have more than enough power to hold this realm and four others without even trying! And mad he may be, but his madness has birthed brilliance where it would have broken others! Always has he been loyal and fierce and true, and he deserves whatever happiness he might be able to find! And I, foolish cousin, am not the one who has forgotten my place." A distant, thunderous rumbling started under their feet, ice lined the stone in rippling waves, and a heat unlike any ever known spread from her as though ignited by her fury. "No, it is _you_ that has forgotten, but no more."

And one by one, those in that hallway dropped to their knees, servant after servant until even Sahirah and Arion were humbled before her.

When they were able to glance up, only Anton still stood straight and proud at her side, something darkly wicked shining in eyes like bits of hazel hell.


	8. Chasing Stars

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! Except, again, for Anton! He's mine, damn it! (cackles gleefully)

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed over my _horrendously long_ period of absence. Your support got me through some rough times, even when I wasn't writing, and you have no idea how much it means to me. You guys are **absolutely** **amazing**, and **I love you**. :-)

Dun dun dun dun...

…...

Damian cocked his head to one side as heat rushed through him and ice and pure energy followed on its heels. His sister was dangerously close to an unleashing over something, and he and Tristan could not help but feel it. Clenching one fist and sending her as much control as he could spare, he glanced over at his twin. Tristan rose an elegant silver eyebrow and shrugged, as perplexed as he was. She was somehow still shielding, and unless they wished to try and force those shields to lower for them, they would have to wait for her to volunteer the information they sought. A tiny thread of rage shot through him, for no matter their teasing and jests, they loved and cherished their little sister…in some ways more than anyone else.

And whoever or whatever had brought her so close to the edge would pay, and pay dearly, should they deem it necessary. He felt her catch that thought, felt her latch onto it like a lifeline, and he let her. She pulled herself back from that perilous brink with it, hauled herself back into calmer waters, and he knew the instant that her roiling power began to recede. Slowly, so as not to startle her into silence, he sent out the barest hint of speculation, of curiosity, and was rewarded with a jumble of emotions and flashes of visions. What he saw inside her mind in those moments thoroughly shocked him, and he realized, however belatedly, that he had been far too wrapped up in his own problems as of late. He had failed to even _notice_ that something was plaguing his beloved Blyss…and that was unforgivable.

"We are supposed to help her, protect her," Tristan whispered as though another might hear, though they were alone in a rainforest deep in the South American wilds. Hisses and odd chirps and croaks were his only reply before he continued. "Yet we did not even know there was a problem."

"We've cursed others for blindness over the years," Damian finally responded, pushing heavy green leaves out of his way and growling the local jaguar into submission when she came to investigate their intrusion, "but we've been as blind as any."

A rush of displaced air stopped whatever Tristan might have said and caused the great cat to leap from her feet into the nearest tree with a low roar. A second later, Luthen and Lithia stood before them with bright smiles and mischievous glints in their eyes, and Damian took an involuntary step back before he could stop himself. Instincts were instincts, after all, and his were much more finely tuned than most. But then Luthen laughed, a familiar, wrenching sound that had haunted Damian's dreams for years, and his prized instincts began to once again become smothered by something entirely different. Love is not fair or rational, nor does it always have one's best interests at heart. It simply is what it is, and all are its pawns.

"Come away with us, precious ones," Luthen purred, emerald eyes catching tiny bits of dappled sunlight and turning them somewhat golden. "Let us get away from this heat and go somewhere open, where we can see the night sky."

"You used to love the forests at dawn," Tristan commented, and Damian felt his hesitance through their link. Neither could explain why they stayed so continuously wary, even when their souls cried out and pleaded for completion. Lithia's smile faltered the slightest bit, but she was much farther gone than they were and it was back in an instant as soon as her brother wound his fingers around her own.

"Yes," Luthen agreed without the slightest bit of hesitation, "but I have my reasons for no longer being quite as fond of them…"

Remembrance hit, and Damian wished to scream and rip out his hair by the handful. Their last night together before…before…had been in a forest very similar. He had been so content, so thrilled with life and all its mysteries and promises, and now he only wished for peace, for oblivion, for an end to all of this. But he was the Storm Heir, and suicide was so far beneath him that it was barely even a vague concept in his mind. No, he would endure, he would survive…and if he lost so much of himself in the process that he could no longer recognize his own reflection…then so be it. Eyes narrowing as Luthen stepped forward, he wondered if he saw something in his beloved's face just then, he wondered if Luthen knew of their misgivings…

But then that loving grin was back, and his thoughts became foggier, his mind delightfully hazy.

"So, will you come? Will you join us on an island somewhere, perhaps, or—"

But Luthen never finished, because the shadows under the trees began solidifying, swirling, forming into a shape that resembled a woman or perhaps a very curvy man. The shadows did not draw back, however; no one stepped forth. Because as little sunlight as there was, it was just enough to keep a true vampire at bay. And only the Ancients or someone sent by them could travel in such a way, so a vampire it was. He'd seen his parents do it a few times, but they were anomalies, paradoxes, and he put nothing past them. The darkness formed a mouth, and the mouth spoke with the satiny voice of one of the long-dead.

"Neithotep sends her greetings, Princes of the Crown, and wishes an audience with you at your earliest convenience."

Surprise was not the right word. They had spoken with the great lady before, mind-to-mind and through mirrors, but they had never actually met her, except for once, when they were very small. She stayed to herself mostly, and never attended any of the balls or conferences that they frequented. The only real memory they had of her was from when they were born, and those memories were hard to grasp and very vague. Looking at his twin, Damian nodded once and gave a short, yet somehow sincere, apology to Luthen and Lithia, both of whom appeared less than pleased. Once, Damian and Tristan would have asked that they be allowed to come as well; now, Damian simply took his brother's hand and caught the ether with a thought.

He felt Neithotep calling to them as soon as they were in that misty web of magic, and they followed her summons deep into Egypt and down, down, down, miles below Terra's surface. They came out in a large hallway made completely of gold; hieroglyphs, or _medu netcher_, "the language of the gods", were inscribed from floor to ceiling on the walls. They told a story, the story of the beginning, of how it all had started with Nu, Watery Chaos, and the Sun god, Ra. The call still pulled them forward, and as they began their trek down the dark, glittery passageway, they soaked in the old legends surrounding them on all sides.

Legends of how Ra grew lonely and mated with His own shadow to produce children. Of how His first two children were lost, and upon their return, He wept and life sprang forth from the earth. Damian particularly enjoyed the tales of Isis, Osiris, Horus and Seth, all of whom he had spent much of his childhood with. A smirk played over his lips as the hallway curved and the great battles between Seth and Horus sprang to life on the walls, for he knew all too well that those two would continue fighting for eternity. He was only brought back to the present when the shadow vampire took shape before them, and it was indeed a female. Hooded and cloaked, she pointed the way, and an archway in the gold began to shine with a light of its own.

"Enter, beloved of my beloved, and know safety in my Halls," a spectral voice slithered out of nowhere and everywhere, and the vampire before them shivered visibly.

Then the light was gone and a void of blackness waited for them, and with their fingers still intertwined tightly, the twins stepped forward and into the unknown. All was silent and dark for long moments, before a single sphere of blood-colored witchlight seemed to lead the way, and in the next breath, all became visible. The room was large, beautiful and full of priceless treasures that had not seen the sun for several millennium, but they noticed none of it, for one treasure stood out among all the rest.

She was a timeless work of perfection, small and dainty yet reeking of power, shorter than females were in modern times but ten times as feral. High cheekbones curved over a tiny, flared nose and unimaginably full lips, and her chin came to a gentle, rounded point that seemed to scream for lips to brush over it reverently. Her ebony hair was braided in the Egyptian style, tiny plaits resting still and silky on her shapely shoulders, and a _pschent_, a Double Crown of ancient Egypt, sat upon those braids for a mere second before it was simply gone and replaced by a circlet studded in gemstones, a gold cobra rising from the front, ready to strike.

She was thin, wisp-like under her loose, gauzy robes, which hung open to her waist and gave them tantalizing glimpses of small, firm breasts and a flat, muscled stomach covered in tattoos. She gave the visual appearance of helplessness, of weakness, until she moved or you caught a glimpse of her eyes. Because she moved like a lion, all sensual grace and predatory power, and those glassy black orbs had seen the dawn of recorded history. They held the secrets of the ages, they had seen mighty empires rise and fall, they had witnessed the birth and death and rebirth of the wizarding regime, they had watched countless millions die and plead and pray…and they had known love and hate and pain and joy so many times over the long, never-ending years that some part of them no longer shone the way they should have, and yet somehow blinded the eye with their brilliance at the same time.

To say they were awed was a bit of an understatement.

And strangest of all, she looked upon them with the same wonder shining just underneath the surface.

"So, it is true," she began softly, an unidentifiable accent that was both musical and husky coloring her words. "I felt it, sensed it, yet I somehow doubted that such creatures as yourselves would stay mortal, especially given who your parents are." Moving oh-so-slowly, she began crossing the expanse of gilded floor that separated them, and her skin was so pale that it seemed to give back the witchlight in soft hues. But her flesh was not purely white, not even after so long. It seemed to hold captive a golden glitter that sparkled as she walked, blinked, talked…and they could not stop staring.

"Yes, you've stayed mortal, and I fear I know why, dear Princes," she continued as she drew ever nearer, and there was such knowledge in those spellbinding eyes, such wicked wisdom, that he didn't doubt for a second that she did. And she proved him right a moment later. "You have both hoped, until very recently, that something would happen, that the gods would take pity on you, and you could Pass with it being no fault of your own. That would have been much easier while mortal, would it not?"

Neither said a single word, nor so much as breathed.

"I had considered…" she trailed off, and something inside Damian whispered, "_that voice, that voice is like blood, true Blood, when it slides along your tongue thicker than any wine and a million times more satisfying…and you want that Blood, don't you?"_

"I had considered," she continued, unaware of his internal conflict or at least appearing so, "just drifting in on a breeze one night and taking you, bringing you here and giving you no choice. But you are not normal mortals to be so trifled with, considering your lineage and your own power. And besides, as of late your wills have changed."

She finally reached them, standing mere feet away, and that was when they saw the fangs. And those were not just fangs, oh no. Her two front top teeth were normal, though they were as smooth and perfect as polished white marble, but the next three on either side…those tapered into dangerous points, the smallest toward the front and each growing longer and more deadly, until the third was almost half an inch of curved, poisonous destruction. And poisonous they were—he knew that. Because the six pointed teeth alone set her apart and gave truth to a thousand whispered legends. There were tales, old tales from dynasties long fallen to dust, of an original vampire, of a Mother to the Ancients themselves.

And she, it was told, possessed those same, impossible fangs, which no other of her kind had ever had.

"Sweet Hades," Tristan hissed, his fingers tightening their hold until even Damian's fingers threatened to break. "You're…"

"The first Night Bride," she offered amiably, and her voice had suddenly taken on a hissing quality, though it was no less sultry and seductive. "The first human to ever taste the Blood of Twilight. The one the Egyptians called both Amaunet, the Hidden One, "the mother who is also the father", but also Kauket, "the darkness of primal chaos", though I am no goddess and I lived long before kingdoms were even a concept. I am a hundred different Queens that ruled Egypt, though I favor the name Neithotep, because Hor Aha loved me like no other. I created the Ancients, who are not even ancient by my standards, and I gave birth to my race. I turned your fathers and Anton, gave my Blood to your mother, and tasted the barest bit of you both when you were yet a night old."

The twins sucked in a breath. They hadn't remembered _that_.

"I would give you the gift if you asked it of me," she said softly, trailing her fingers over their cheeks and shivering just as they shivered. "Or, if you are not yet ready, I would give a different sort of gift."

"And what would that be?" Damian asked as he watched her hands fall gracefully back to her sides, bracelets clinking with a quiet music of their own and sparkling in the low light.

"A direct link to me, as well as the power to command any vampire alive, much like your parents and uncle possess, with a few exceptions, of course."

"And the price?" Tristan questioned, causing a small smile to pull at her sensuous lips.

"That when you do decide to take the Blood—and you _will_, sweet Princes, if you live long enough—you will come to me for it." She paused, letting her eyes run over them in a way neither could decipher, before speaking again. "But you must understand. This gift is not given with blood."

"Then what is it given with?" Damian asked quietly, knowing several ways such magic could be worked.

His question was answered when a mere tilt of her head had her robes falling to the floor, leaving her bare except for the artfully placed jewelry that seemed to make the aureate tint to her skin even more unreal and eye-catching. She seemed sprinkled in a light coating of gold dust, and he had never known skin could look so metallic, especially such pale skin, let alone so…so _softly_ metallic. She glanced up at them through her eyelashes, something so primal and ferocious in her gaze that tingling sparks shot through the twins and began a slow burn somewhere deep inside them that hadn't been touched in much, much too long.

"Yes," she hissed, eyes misting with desire until even the whites were as black as her irises and pupils, "catch fire for me. Let me see the flames, the _Life_, dance across your flesh; give me a taste and I will give you one in return. I will give you a small death, a piece of what you sought, something to carry with you and keep you cold…"

All three swore their oaths with lips and tongues and fangs and claws that night, and for several nights after. The twins learned many things from her during the days, when she couldn't summon the power for passion, and many more at night when she could. And they began to love her, and she them, in some twisted, morbid fashion that none of them quite understood. And they did die, just a little bit, enough to change them in several small, vital ways. But such was imperceptible when she was before them in all her golden glory (gods, they'd never have thought they could cherish the color so much), and when they finally had to leave, all they could think was that her eyes had changed again.

Though neither knew if the Void could weep, they imagined that if it could, it would have resembled those abyssal eyes right then. They didn't want to go (she was far too captivating for their own good, surely), yet they had to. Yule had passed and they were already expected back at school. They had been given a bit of an extended reprieve, all the Royal children had due to Luthen's return, but that time had passed. There were no goodbyes said; Neithotep simply turned away and was gone, melting into the closest shadow and vanishing. But she vanished with pieces of them, willingly given yet somehow stolen, just as each of them could distinctly feel a tiny bit of her that had been acquired in much the same fashion.

They'd damned their souls just a bit more, and for what?

For sanity, for flesh and lust and power…and perhaps, just perhaps, for the slightest bit of healing.

...

Madison stalked into the Royal family's dining hall, idly hoping the servants had laid out some fresh mango, which they had. Looking around after he had grabbed a slice, he saw Blyss lounging in one of the window seats, starlight playing over her sculpted features softly. Smirking and popping the slice of delicious fruit in his mouth, he went to her and lifted her legs before sliding underneath them and laying them over his lap. She didn't even glance up as he did so, lost in thought, and he left her to her mental dialogue, leaning his head back against the cool glass and waiting patiently for her to finally speak. Which she did after several more minutes had passed, her lovely face a picture of confusion and agitation.

"Madison?"

"Yes, love?"

"Do...Well, what do you think?" she asked, and he knew, of course, what she spoke of. How could he not? Rumors circled viciously, especially after the incident between her and Arion in the hallway the other day, although Arion himself had not said a word of it as far as Madison knew.

He sighed. "I think that you should do what makes you happy, regardless of others' opinions."

"Yes, yes," she agreed, "but what do you _think_?"

"I do not think that you could have chosen anyone more worthy. It is, however, unfortunate, given the circumstances."

She closed her eyes briefly. "I do not wish to hurt my aunt."

"I know." He stared at her for a moment, lost in thought. "Although, I must admit I am of the mindset that Pansy is hurting herself. Many are shocked at her behavior towards one who has been with her through so much and never led her wrong, one she is soul-bound to. Many are shocked at her anger with the Sovereigns, as well. She is not gaining much favor with the Court lately, but many also feel sympathy for her and her plight. Some, though, those that believe Luthen is not Luthen, they…"

"They what?" Blyss questioned with dark eyes, and he licked his lips slowly before answering.

"They fear the sickness will spread to her, maybe even to Lithia and your brothers."

Blyss sat in silence for a long while, but Madison could be quite patient when he wished to be, and Blyss needed patience now, not hasty words or ill thought-out statements and rumors.

"I do not know what is wrong with me, cousin," she whispered, leaning into his chest as he intertwined their fingers. "Something grips me, something has latched onto my soul…no," she rethought her words, and then corrected herself. "Something has sprung forth from within it, claws ripping and fangs bared, and I have never felt so alive, so vicious and primal and enlightened as I do when his eyes meet mine or his body brushes against my own. I have never felt so sure, so determined, so powerful…"

Her eyes took on a glazed sheen that seemed spangled with scarlet stars, with small bits of burning blood.

"You love him."

Madison did not truly mean to say what was swimming through his mind in dizzying circles, but the words echoed in his ears as he truly took this seriously for the first time. He couldn't deny or wave off the fire raging in her soul, fire he could almost taste, fire so full of desire and decadence and…and something _else_, something he could not name. Her lips tightened minutely and her fingers tangled themselves a little more within his own.

"Of course I do. I always have."

"Oh no, sweet cousin, you know what I speak of."

"I—" But she never had the chance to finish as the doors swung open silently and Draco entered, bringing the fresh scent of a thousand salty oceans with him, his mercury eyes seeming to roll and twist, as though waves washed through his very soul.

_So_, Madison thought before eternal allegiance brought him from the window seat to his knees, _he is water today, not ice_. Somewhere below them on Terra, a storm raged and cleansed and destroyed, one large enough to capture the King's attention and aid. He could be like this for hours or days, depending. Blyss froze, and then slowly rose into a crouching position until her father looked at her. Then her resolve shattered and she was a ruby blur as she flew into his arms, her hands wrapping around his neck as his slid around her slender waist.

"Oh, papa, I know not what to do," she murmured into his hair, which today, due to the storm, was a silvery blue. Madison stayed perfectly still as his Sovereign's storm-struck eyes bored into his own. He looked away first, and when he looked back, Draco was no longer even glancing his way. No, his gaze was all for his darling daughter, and Madison knew, in that moment, that his King would do just about anything for her should she ask it, even if it meant unraveling some of the ties that held the inner circle together so tightly, ties that could be undone by nothing less than creatures as immensely powerful as he and his mates were.

"I know, my precious one, I know," Draco intoned with a voice that seemed to ripple along the very air, tingling over Madison's skin with both the gentleness of a caress and the crushing power of the deepest, darkest ocean. "And as much as I wish I could fix all of this for you, it is time for you to chose your own path and dictate your own destiny. Come now, both of you. There is a meeting being held shortly, and you are both to be there."

Curiosity rose within Madison like the tides in Draco's eyes, and he followed the High Royals out of the dining room and down several long corridors, before they reached the smaller throne room that was located between the Royal wing and the Family wing. The doors swung open the moment his King moved within range, and they entered in silence. Madison was not surprised to find all of the other Royals already there, everyone from Lycelle to Severus. All waited soundlessly, and none moved anything but their eyes as Draco ascended the dais and took his rightful place next to Blaise and their Queen. The torches dimmed as he lowered himself regally onto his throne, and Virginia spoke at once.

They obviously were not observing the least bit of formality.

"We have called you here," she said as her eyes swept over those assembled, "to inform you that we are leaving for the Underworld at dusk." No one said a word. Such was not unusual, but they didn't usually call everyone together in such a fashion for such a routine occurrence, either.

Blaise picked up where she left off. "Draco, Virginia, Padma, Fred and I will depart alone. But we will not be returning in a few days, or even a few weeks." Whispers would have broken out at any other gathering, but this was not a typical gathering, and they were not typical people.

"In fact," Draco continued, "we are not positive of when you can expect us. We have chosen who shall rule in our absence, and they are to be obeyed as you would obey us. Anything less is treason and shall be punished accordingly."

Finally, one dared speak.

"And who have you chosen, my son?" Narcissa's voice was cultured and smooth, but she looked the tiniest bit worried. The Sovereigns departing at such a tremulous time did not seem very fortunate in their family's eyes, but it was not their place to question, either.

"Anton and George."

Scattered nods were the only reply, and Madison caught a glimpse of Pansy's features as she sat upon her throne and turned her face away. Anger burned in those honey eyes, anger and imagined rejection, and he knew that she was not pleased to have been passed over. Fred was not staying to rule, either, but then again, he was not staying at all. Livia gave her mother a compassionate glance before shooting a livid glare at her father, who sat upon his own throne lazily, as if this came as no surprise to him. Which it probably didn't. But it _was_ a surprise to Pansy, which said more than any words could do that she was not only falling out of courtly favor, but out of divine favor, as well.

And right then, in Madison's night-kissed eyes, she seemed smaller, even though she still sat proudly on the dais next to George.

"Well," Damian drawled softly, a smirk twisting his full lips, "all hail the Regents."

...

A week later, Morven, eldest son of Anton and Pansy and heir to the McGregor line, listened to his sister, Selene, as she once again complained about the injustice done to her. He tried not to smile every time he looked at her, as she was wearing a simple, dirty homespun dress of un-dyed wool that was splattered with bloodstains, had her hair in two loose, unkempt braids, and only worn, badly made leather sandals protected her scratched and bruised feet. And as she quietly screeched at him about her aches and ills and damaged dignity, he decided that working in the fields had not helped her disposition become any brighter.

Glad that the weekly visitation session was almost over and that he was almost free, he assured her that yes, of course he would write, and yes, he would definitely arrange for her to receive different shoes and a decent pillow. Rolling his eyes and finally escaping, he hurried back to Caliga, needing a long swim and bit of blood. He'd skipped lunch, after all, in order to see Selene. Once in the sprawling underwater Palace, which was surrounded on all sides by a much larger city, he stripped off his outer robe, which now smelled of old copper, and threw it to the waiting elf. It wasn't until he was soaking in one of the hot springs that the Queen had called up from under the crust that he heard two very familiar voices.

His father, he knew, was here on a routine visit as Regent while George stayed on Luna. But he had no idea why his mother was in Caliga; he hadn't even known she was coming. And he certainly didn't know why she was with his father, as they had not seen one another except in passing for weeks. They were speaking in low, almost inaudible tones, lost somewhere in all the mist. But Morven's keen ears caught the hushed noise, and though he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't help but listen. After all, they were his parents, and if they were discussing the issues between them, resolving things…

But they were resolving nothing.

"_Do not say you love me!_" his mother spat venomously. "Do not tell me such lies when you ran around after the Crown Princess as if she were a bitch in heat!"

"I ran around after _no one_, dear wife," Anton shot back, just as furious. "And you will not speak of our friends' daughter, _of the heir to a throne that you serve_, in such a way."

"_Our_ friends?" Pansy speculated, her thick voice layered with sarcasm and spite. "Are you sure that you don't mean _your_ friends?"

"Careful, wife of mine. The touch of treason doesn't become you."

"And neither does _your_ touch, beloved husband. Not any longer."

Silence. World-cracking, soul-wrenching silence.

Then, "We had something beautiful, Anton. A family, a life, our love. Why can you no longer see it?"

"Because it no longer exists!" he finally hissed. "That child is not our child, that life can never be ours again, and that love…I do not know what has happened to that love."

"Because you love _her_?" It seemed more a demand than an inquiry.

"All love Blyss."

"Do not play the fool with me!" A pause, another agonizing silence, and then, "Fine. Keep your little whore, I—"

"Pansy…" The word was both a plead and a warning growl.

"_What!_ Where are they, Anton! They are not here, they are nowhere near, and they are so distant from me that I highly doubt they caught that or that they even care at all anymore."

Anton's silence seemed to stretch into eternity, before it shattered around them as his next words flowed out like a damning tide of determined sorrow.

"Court blasphemy if you wish it, beloved. But remember, through whatever delusions have stolen your soul, that they will always love you. _I_ will always love you." At her disbelieving snort, he hissed, "How many times during the first week of this nightmare did I try to reach you? I would move Hell itself for you, my lady, if you would but let me. But as you made so abundantly clear, you do not wish for the words of an ignorant fool who cannot see the miracle right before him; you shunned every glance, every touch, every endearment, until I finally stopped attempting them. So I've waited, I've watched, praying you would remember your strength, remember who you are, and go to the Sovereigns for aid – aid they would grant you in a heartbeat if you would but seek it. But you have not, you circle that creature like a vulture does carrion, you insult and belittle me every chance that you get, and yet...and yet even as I grow to dislike you, I love you still, as much as ever."

A pause, and the world seemed to stop its steady spinning, sucking in a breath as the Fates' fingers slowed their ceaseless weaving as if waiting, waiting, waiting for Anton to rewrite destiny.

"But I will not destroy my own soul for a love that is no longer pure, nor even returned. And even if it still were, I would never, _could_ never, turn from my Sovereigns for it, or for anything else. My heart beats for them, _because_ of them, and unlike some, I will not forsake such a gift. My love for you has never waned, beloved – I still feel as strongly as I did the day that I asked you to marry me – yet your love for me has proven a much more fickle thing. You have until the end of summer, sweet lady, to regain your senses or give me undeniable proof that you are right, or I will request a Dissolution…and then you will no longer have to worry over how _I_ have changed."

And then he was gone, leaving both Pansy and Morven alone with their thoughts. And though Morven had no idea what was running through his mother's head at the moment, he was all too aware of what was racing through his own. His world was fracturing at the seams, splintering and tearing and falling apart, and he had no fucking idea how to stitch it back together again.

...

Feeling sick, Anton leaned against the nearest solid object he could find after getting as far from Pansy as possible. His stomach roiled and salt burned his eyes as tears threatened for the first time since five had returned when it should have been six. His lost son's face flashed through his mind, pale and perfect and glowing with dark love, and a longing, desperate whimper escaped his lips as his nails dug into the stone he was clutching at so fiercely. He missed Luthen more than he had ever thought possible, more than any but three truly knew, but he had become too powerful to fall prey to the deception his wife had.

_His wife…_

Gods, how he loved her. It was with him always, a constant ache where it had once been a constant joy, and he wished for nothing more than to help her, shield her…but he could not fight this battle for her. He could only pray that in the end she would find her own power, her own forgotten strength…that she would not be found as weak as she was beginning to seem. They'd both known that over the long years, he'd eclipsed her in power, but he'd had no idea it had been to such a drastic degree. He'd been advancing faster into the dark than she ever since his first wandless unleashing when they were still little more than children, but she had never appeared as though she were all that far behind.

Perhaps he'd simply been too dazzled by her to notice. He'd always found her captivating, entrancing, in everything from how she spoke and smiled and sung to the way her hair would sometimes curl just so until it framed one stunning eye perfectly. A sob began its treacherous path up and up and up until he thought he was choking on his own sorrow. Sinking slowly to the pebbled earth beneath him, a wave of dizziness consumed all for a long moment before his head cleared and he finally realized what he was leaning against. It was a statue, one he'd seen a thousand times.

There was Draco, lips curved in an arrogant smirk and one hand outstretched as though holding the crushing water all around at bay, and Virginia stood portrayed beside him with a bow in hand and a vicious smile, Blaise at her side and their fingers entangled as his storm-swept eyes stayed glued towards the sky. Tingles shot through Anton from his eyes to his thighs and he was on his feet again in seconds. A mere thought, a breath, and the Regent was in the ether and riding fast and furious for the only safe haven he'd ever known. Seconds later, hours later — what did it matter? — he spun out and straight into waiting, wanting arms. Silver obscured everything, the scent of mint invaded everything, and every muscle in his body seemed to sag and tighten at the same time.

"Dread it not, darling," a voice like liquid love and endless divinity slid over his skin and into his soul, "I have you, now and always."

"I've lost her, Draco. _We've_ lost her."

"Perhaps," his King responded bluntly, yet not without compassion and sorrow, "or perhaps not. But consider, lovely one, what you still possess."

And Anton did. He thought of the one holding him so tightly, of the other two who stood bare inches away, of Morven, of Cyan, of Livia and Lithia (who he wasn't sure he hadn't lost completely, as well), of Fred and George and Padma, of Sebastian and Melody, of Mira and Daphne, of Madison and Arion and Atreus. He thought of Damian and Tristan, who he knew could be more than worthy of the Thrones should they fight what must be fought…and then, as though drowning beneath the confusion of it, he thought of Blyss, of her fire-bright hair and intoxicating eyes, of her lean, muscled curves, and morbid, mischievous spirit, of her power and purity and innocent love…

_Innocence. _

Much too innocent for this madness, _his_ madness.

"She will not be innocent forever," his Queen intoned in a neutral way that spoke of acceptance and lack of judgment, "no more than I was."

"But Pansy…"

"We miss her, too. But we will not strip her free will away, nor belittle her by interfering. And sometimes, as of late, it is difficult for us to...feel, as we become more and more the embodiments of our elements. It would kill part of us to lose her, but it would destroy us to lose you both. And your life and your love are yours to give however you see fit."

_"I cannot love them both!"_

Silence met that outburst, and he brushed Draco's smooth hair from his eyes and saw his Sovereigns looking at him with such exasperated affection that he almost wished to weep. Then Draco stepped back and Blaise moved in with the silky grace of a snake, alabaster fingers brushing over Anton's lips and drawing a moan from his throat.

"Can you not?" his King questioned before slyly sliding his eyes over first to Virginia, then to Draco. "Can one not love two equally?" Then those beguiling blue eyes were back on him, and Blaise's next words stunned Anton so thoroughly that his head swam. "And very nearly three?"

"Three?" Anton hissed in disbelief. "Who else could you possibly hold in nearly so much regard as you do your mates?"

His only reply was highly hallowed lips meeting his own in the softest, most chaste kiss that he had ever received from the one before him. The gentleness shocked him, not for its lightness but for the impact that it had. Swooning and very nearly falling, wonder engulfed him. He had never known so much could be said with a meeting of lips on lips, yet volumes were contained in that simple show of devotion, and he _had_ begun to weep. Then that magnificent mouth was gone and replaced by one so cold, yet so supple and adoring, that the tears flowed ever faster and completely unheeded. Then it, too, disappeared, only to be replaced with such heat that his soul felt scorched to the core.

When he could breathe again, every trace of moisture had evaporated and he was left speechless as Virginia spoke with a soft, twisted smile.

"Never fear, beloved, for we love you more than you know and would allow you anything you ever desired, no matter how depraved or wretched or selfish it may seem."

But to chase stars was to chase true madness, because wishing after something you had no hope of ever having could drive even the mighty to death.

"So sad, love, so pessimistic and yet so pretty," Draco crooned, before sweeping his hair back with a pale hand and revealing an equally pale throat. "Drink, and know the gods are with you. We wish to wipe that look from your eyes in waves of wicked pleasure. Drink."

So he did, taking comfort and strength from them as only they could give it. Devotion is a double-edged sword that cuts deep, so deep, but he enjoyed seeing his blood run at their touch, enjoyed the hint of silver that had grown inside the purple.

He left with new power, new resolve, and a feeling that no matter what tragedies were still to come, it would not break him, for he had the love of gods to guide him.

...

_'Silly, stupid, ungrateful little shit.'_

The hoarse, rasping voice seemed to slide out of the very walls, and Luthen froze, his eyes widening and fear choking him. _Not now_, what was left of him pleaded. _Not when I'm finally so close_…

_'You cannot kill what is already dead, you witless fool. Now drop it, drop it…Drop it!'_

And he did. The chunk of ragged glass fell from his shaking fingers and shattered on the marble floor. He had no willpower where the voice was concerned; he had his loved ones to thank for that. But he didn't blame them, oh no. They had done what they believed was right, what he would have done in their place. They had thought they were saving him, yet they had damned his very soul. Very little of him was left, but the part that was could rarely do anything except wail in protest and violent pain as the corruption filling him began to spread. And it could be a subtle thing, slow and quiet in an almost gentle way, virtually undetectable. A glance here, a push towards infidelity there, morphing desires usually restrained turning into so much more; he doubted his father and his cherished Blyss even knew what had kindled the potentially disastrous situation they were finding themselves in.

It could also move more swiftly, a snake it the grass, ready to strike. His beloved sister was gone, being wholeheartedly devoured, and his precious mother wasn't far behind. His lovers, though, seemed to be fighting it better, but he feared for them as each night passed. Not that he cared the majority of the time. Because for twenty-three hours of every single day, he was as vile and infected as the voice that plagued him. But the remaining hour was his blessing, his most cherished and reviled curse. Staring at the bits of glass littering the ground, he prayed to the gods that one day he would find the strength to slice open an artery and end this. Maybe the voice was right. Maybe he couldn't die. But he could certainly fucking _try_. Sweet Isis, how he wished he could run to his father, but Anton would as soon kill him as touch him these days, and who could blame him? He had been defiled.

But it hurt. For one achingly long hour at the end of each never-ending day, it hurt so viciously that it alone would have made him wish to die. To see his idolized father's eyes fill with disgust at the smallest glimpse of him was crushing. As though he didn't loathe himself enough already…But that was redundant. What was important was that he find a way to keep the taint from eating the Court from the inside out. And to do that, he had to find a way to kill himself, as unnatural as the idea was. Perhaps he could provoke one of the Sovereigns into a rage…But they had departed. Perhaps he could—

_'Enough! Think of what must be done, you useless sack of flesh! Do you wish to rule or grovel at the darklings' feet forever?'_

"At least I _have_ flesh, you-" his sarcastic remark died on his lips, he knew a moment of anger and fear, of disorientation, and then a sadistic smile came out to play. His hour was up.

"I wish to rule."

…...

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